


War by Other Means

by Ael_tRlailiiu



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Multiple, mentions of Rumplestiltskin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael_tRlailiiu/pseuds/Ael_tRlailiiu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Politics, piracy, and spying will keep a man busy. Killian Jones has the additional problem of having sold his soul, with the deadline to collect drawing ever-nearer.</p><p>Romance, adventure, intrigue, and magic! A canon divergence based on the premise that Killian made another deal to save his brother's life. After a successful revolution to oust the corrupt king, Liam is a highly placed member of the royal government. Killian is the one they depend on to cause trouble when they need it, but they don't know how much trouble he's already in. Meeting with Milah takes place as in canon and develops from there.</p><p>Chapter 1-11 - Part 1, The Enchanted Forest<br/>Chapter 12-? - Part 2, Agrabah</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude - Four Years Ago

Everything had gone quiet. The sound of running feet in answer to Killian's desperate call—silent. The motion of the ship—still. Liam's chest did not move, his body a terrible weight in Killian's arms. It seemed that time had stopped, except for himself and for the creature that had appeared without fanfare on the far side of the cabin.

“Good afternoon,” the new arrival said. “I hope I'm not intruding—you did say _anyone_ when you called for help just now, didn't you?”

“I—I suppose I did.” He steadied his breath with an effort. “Who are you?” What it was seemed obvious enough. Goat-horned, goat-legged, its scaled skin was a sickly corpse-blue, its eyes red.

“Call me Maelstrom.” The creature seated itself at the table and leaned on its elbows, clawed fingers steepled as it studied him. “Now. Before you ask—yes, I can save him. Or I could go away, time starts again, and about half a minute after that, your friend....?”

“My brother.”

“Your brother will be dead. Irrevocably, I'm afraid. Unless you are willing to, perhaps, engage in a bit of trading.”

“Anything. My life.” The whole kingdom – two kingdoms – in the balance? They needed Liam, his experience and his contacts, his leadership, his sway with the nobility. They did not need one young navigator, however skilled.

The inhuman mouth stretched in a smile. “Not much use to us, I'm afraid. Souls are the usual stock in trade.”

The idea did give him pause, but not for long. “All right.”

“Splendid! Before we proceed, I am required to ask whether you are of sound mind and understand the meaning of the phrase 'eternal damnation.'”

“I do.” He swallowed. “Might I inquire more precisely as to the details?”

“Certainly. Your contract.” A roll of paper appeared in one clawed hand. “Take your time.”

Killian eased Liam down the floor and got up to take the scroll. In the light that slanted through the aft windows of the frozen ship, he read it. “There appear to be some additional terms here.”

“Ah, that. Well.” The demon waved a hand. “Your unfortunate companion has fallen afoul of Neverland magic. That's powerful stuff. Not to be trifled with. No match for it anywhere in this world, and precious few in any others. There's an additional handling fee. You just do us a few favors before the term is up, installment plan sort of thing, and we'll be square. Still minus your soul, of course, that's not negotiable, delivery in seven years.”

“And if I fail to carry out these... favors?”

Maelstrom showed teeth. “Then he'll be just as dead as he will be if you send me on my way now.”

“I see.”

“Bright lad.”

“We have a contract.” A lot could happen in seven years.

“Splendid! Let me just fill in the names like... so. Your hand?” The demon's claw bit deep. A pen appeared in its other hand. He dipped it into the blood that seeped up into Killian's cupped palm. “Sign here.”

*

When Liam woke up, he was in his own bunk. Night had fallen. The lamp suspended from the ceiling had been turned low, swinging gently with the ship's motion. The glow illuminated Killian, sitting at the table. A book lay open before him, but his attention appeared to be on the empty air astern.

“What,” Liam started to ask.

Killian jumped and turned toward him. “Back with us, brother? How are you feeling?”

“What happened?”

“You had a bit of a turn there on landing. Some aftereffect of the poison, perhaps. Out cold for a while, I'm afraid.”

“I suppose that would explain the headache.” He sat up. “I do seem to recall feeling a bit queer. Fine now otherwise.”

“Glad to hear it. I'll just go pass the word along, shall I?” Killian got up.

“Do th—what's that?”

“Hm?” Killian glanced at the bandage on his hand, stark white against the wood of the ladder to the upper deck. “Bottle got broken when you fell. Cut myself in all the excitement.” He flashed Liam a smile that seemed slightly off. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Well.” Liam stood, pleased to find that he felt entirely himself again, but concerned about his brother's manner. “Let's put all of that behind us. We have a great deal of work to do once we get home.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_(Present day)_

At ten minutes past the hour, Liam Jones's clerk knocked on His Lordship's door.

“Yes?”

“I believe your next appointment is here.”

“Send him in. You're late,” Liam said, scowling as he got up from his desk.

“I know.” Killian sauntered into the room and looked around. “This is new, isn't it? I very nearly got lost finding the place.” Like many other things in the kingdom, six months ago the place had still been under reconstruction. Now azure carpet filled the room's center. Brass lamps gleamed on the walls; crystal glittered on the sideboard.

“Is that false modesty?” As soon as the door had closed, Liam rounded the desk and dropped the pretense of annoyance to envelope his brother in a warm embrace. “You've never been lost in your life.”

“Only kind I've got. I did say nearly. You're looking well.”

“And you're....” Liam released him and stepped back for better scrutiny. “What in God's name are you wearing?”

“What do you think?” Killian turned around to display the black coat. “Just the right note of dashing menace?”

“It's a note of something, I'll grant. And speaking of menace....”

“Getting right to the point, I see.” Killian cocked his head in question.

Liam grimaced. “I've a full schedule today. And tomorrow, and every day for the rest of my life, it appears. And you've been busy, as well, these past months.” He resumed his place behind the desk, a half acre of polished wood and scrupulously clean. The gold braiding on his uniform jacket glittered. The queen's official portrait frowned on the pair from the mantle.

“I do my best.” Killian dropped into the facing chair with less ceremony. “You said I should, and I quote, 'go south and raise a ruckus,' that _was_ your word I believe? Show them the benefits of allying with our fair nation, cast into disrepute the blandishments of our would-be competitors. Said benefits would of course include protection for their voluminous trade network.”

“Thirteen ships. One might say that exceeded your brief.”

“They were begging for it, I assure you. brother.”

“Nearly all of them, I might note, were accompanied by guard ships of, as you call them, the competition.”

“Were they really?”

“The war's over, Killian.”

“So they keep saying.” He looked at the rings on his right hand, then back up with a faint smile.

“For a whole year now. There was a ceremony a few weeks back.” Revolution had pushed Liam Jones into an unexpectedly high position in Her Majesty's government, one subject to the full glare of both public and noble scrutiny. His brother had managed to keep in the shadows. Liam leaned his elbows on the desk and watched him carefully. “There is a delegation on its way to discuss that new trade agreement. They're expected within the week. We're fairly certain that your head is going to be high on their list of demands.”

Killian shrugged. “So? We shift seas for a little while. The gold will flow. They'll forget all about me soon enough.”

“Yes, they will.”

“Is that the dulcet lilt of new orders I hear?”

“What do you know about the Enchanted Forest?”

A black eyebrow went up. “As much as anyone, probably. Small, inconveniently far off, lousy with magic, and thank God ogres haven't learned to build boats.”

“Her Majesty has taken an interest in the place. She would like to know more about it. Quietly. The usual sort of business – who's who, how they operate, anything that might be useful.”

“Does she now.”

“You can take it up with her if you wish.”

Wars changed people in ways no one could predict. Three years of _Killian, I'll need you to draw off their attention to the east_ and _Killian, find out what the hell they're up to and then stop it_ and _Killian, I want that port to be rubble by morning_ – Liam sometimes thought that the bonfire of his brother's spirit had been replaced by a dark lantern. The fire was still there, but he showed only as much of it as he wanted to at any given moment. In late and restless hours, Liam wondered when the day would come that he gave an order and Killian said _No_.

That was not today.

“I never argue with Her Majesty.” He smiled again.

Liam relaxed. “Glad you retain some small amount of sense.” Into the chaos of the early revolution had stepped one Margaret Drover. Thanks in part to the weight of the navy and in part to her own spine being made of pure steel, she had emerged from the shark-scrum of candidates for the throne as Her Serene Majesty Margaret I.

“The _Jolly Roger_ can leave in two days.”

“Tomorrow would be better.” Liam tried not to wince. Good reason for it or no, he hadn't held with renaming the ship. Perhaps it was only that he missed her, spent too much time on land himself these days. The office smelled of lamp oil and wood polish, not the sea.

“Can't be done.” Killian shook his head as he stood. “For one, we'll need more supplies. A draft on the exchequer would expedite matters....”

“I know what those ships you took were worth. You can bloody well finance yourself, scoundrel.”

“They weren't cheap to take. Regardless, that's a long crossing even if the winds are fair. For two, I've an appointment tomorrow evening.”

Liam sighed. “Who is it this time?”

“Lord Graves.”

“Try not to kill him. He's more useful than he looks.” He also had a very pretty, very bored young wife. They really must keep Killian's visits to the capital brief.

“I promise nothing.” His brother gave him a parade salute. “If that will be all, my lord admiral?”

Liam leaned back in his chair with a fond grin. “Get out of here. You still have that sextant?”

“Never ship without it. See you in eight months.”

*

Killian slouched away from the Admiralty offices, hands in his pockets. The startled, alarmed, and offended glances of passers-by slid off him without effect; his thoughts were far away. Of all places to send him, he would never have picked the Enchanted Forest as likely, and in a hurry to boot. What the hell did she think he was going to find there?

Better to leave the politics to Liam. It did mean that rather than an idle afternoon catching up on the capital's gossip, Killian spent the remainder of the day in warehouses and cramped offices, playing minor variations on the theme of _how much?_ and _you want it when?_ The sun had set over the mountains by the time he got back to the docks. The _Jolly Roger_ lay quietly, beautiful even when she was asleep.

“Captain.” The second mate, Emmett, looked surprised to see him back so soon.

“Pass the word. We ship out in two days.”

“Already?”

“They'll be out of money by then, why hang about.” He paused for a glance around the deck and found everything in order. “Long haul. Chance to see the world. Might even be some reward in it.”

“We've got two already talking about moving on.”

“Then you have tomorrow to replace them. And don't disturb me.”

“Sir.”

A mongrel crew, but not a bad one. Half of them had been with the ship since the war's end, had known her as the _Jewel of the Realm_. Of the rest, some had taken service on her in preference to a hanging, others picked up in distant ports. Good sailors and decent fighters, but few had any idea of what their captain was really after most of the time.

He got halfway through making notes about the day's business when footsteps clattered overhead. Many footsteps.

“Jones! I say, I know you're aboard. I want to talk to you.”

“One moment.” Killian put down the pen and considered just how much trouble he was willing to get into during this visit.

“I'll come down.”

“No, you won't.” He mounted the stair to the upper deck. “Townsend. Dare I hope that you have some _novel_ errand that brings you aboard my ship?”

“I'll double my offer.” Townsend folded his arms over his prodigious chest. Lamplight gleamed on tailored silk and fine leather.

“No.” Killian frowned at Emmett, who shrugged and looked pointedly at the quartet of guards that had accompanied Jasper Townsend, Earl of Noet, their swords and pistols openly worn. “Now, if that will be all—”

“I wanted to keep this friendly, you know. She was never supposed to be yours.”

“It's called battlefield promotion, you may have heard of it. I've told you. The only way anyone else captains this ship is over my dead body. You don't appear to be dressed for such an occasion, so I suggest you leave. Now.” He leaned in close.

Townsend blinked; his heavy face flushed as he realized that he had done so. “I'll take this up at the highest levels. Your brother can't protect you forever.”

“He doesn't have to. It's only your father's memory that's kept me from pitching you into the harbor before this. And now that he's six months gone, that memory is starting to wear thin. You want her so badly, best be prepared to bleed for her.” Gods knew, he had.

“You haven't heard the last of this.” The intruders conducted their retreat with approximate dignity.

“What the hell does he want the _Jolly Roger_ for? A racing boat?” Emmett spat over the side.

“I don't bloody well know. Probably only because he's already got one of everything else. If anyone else comes calling, I'm not here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Killian finished updating the records without interruption. Out in the city, the bells rang midnight. He secured the cabin door just in case. One of the compartments under his bunk held a small, locked wooden box. He took a key from an inner pocket of his coat and fitted it to the lock. It turned silently. Inside lay a small knife, a block of plain wax, and a brass dish. He wrote a name on a scrap of paper, added a drop of blood from his finger, melted a drop of wax on top of it, then touched the paper to the lamp flame and set it in the dish. The scrap burned to ashes in moments.

“This had better be important,” the demon said.

Killian made an equivocal gesture. “I don't know. New orders, we're heading east. Likely to be out there a while. You lot have anything on your shopping list in the Enchanted Forest, this would be your chance.”

Maelstrom twitched an ear back. “That's a long way away.”

“Dazzlingly perceptive. Six weeks if we're fortunate. Don't suppose you have any maps of the place.”

“We don't need them. More than a month, hm? You're going to miss a payment.”

“Arithmetic as well? That's my problem.” At least for the next three years.

“Isn't it just. And speaking of which.”

Killian drew a small velvet bag from the wooden box and handed it over. “Your bauble, as requested.” Half of those thirteen ships had been taken in a hunt for this particular pearl. He still didn't know what the thing did, just that Hell wanted it very badly. They had warned him not to touch it with bare skin.

“Excellent.” Maelstrom opened the bag and eyed the contents with seeming approval. “I'll update the account books accordingly. We'll be in touch.” The demon vanished.

Killian drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments, then shook his head. He stowed away the implements and headed out to find his crew. There was no sense in wasting a night ashore, or the chance to forget for a little while. A thousand days left did not seem like very long at all.


	3. Chapter 3

_(Present day)_

The cell floors on the lowest level of the Old Marsh Tower swam with water every spring tide. Even dry, the place reeked, a fetid soup of river mud, mold, vomit, and human filth. The smell reached up to the room on the second floor where a badly hungover Killian Jones had already waited much longer than he should have to get his crew released.

“Sorry for the delay.” A portly guard poked his head around the door. “Just got a new lot in, have to get them sorted first. Cup of tea?”

“No. Thank you.” Killian looked at the narrow window. A clear, breezy morning had turned the harbor into a thousand mirrors. Reflected sunlight stabbed his eyes, but some fresh air would be welcome.

“Won't open. Latch's broken, sorry about that. Won't be a moment.” He withdrew again.

The room wasn't much better than a cell itself, containing one desk (empty) and one chair (untrustworthy). Killian leaned against the wall (damp) and made a list of everyone who might be responsible for this.

The problem was not that some of the crew had gotten in a fight and arrested. The ship's budget accounted for bribing town officials, including the ones in their home port. That ordinarily ensured that his people were returned to the ship promptly and more or less undamaged after such an affair. It appeared that someone had supplied a larger bribe purely for purposes of annoying him, and that was indeed a problem. Plenty of people didn't like him, but on the whole they weren't petty about it.

Another hour passed before the apologetic guard came back with a stack of paperwork. Then he had to leave again to find a pen and ink. Seven forms, seven fines, seven separate receipts....

“You brought in eight, I was told.”

“Oh. Right. About that one.” The guard cleared his throat. “Bit of a problem with that.”

Killian looked back through the papers. “Adam Barnhardt. Taken up with the rest of them, not fined, not to be released. Dead?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Before or after he arrived here, is the only question.” Killian restrained himself. Violence would improve neither the situation nor his headache.

“Oh, before. Definitely before. Night watch lads went down to break up the fight, piled everyone into the wagon, got 'em here and out and, well.” He shrugged. “It happens.”

“It does.” Adam had been one of the old crew. He would have to let Liam know. “And no one thought to send for me?”

“Er. No?” The guard rubbed at his bald spot. “I mean, nobody said to, I guess? I came on duty at dawn, so I really don't know. Um. I could go look for the duty officer from last night...?”

“Who will, I'm sure, be nowhere to be found, at least not in anything under six hours.” Killian had a journey to prepare for. And a duel, for that matter. “Don't bother. But do pass on the word to Captain Prescott that I will not forget about this.”

“Of course. Er.” The nonplussed fellow collected his papers and retreated. Most of another hour later, the remaining seven crewmen assembled in the courtyard, bloody, bruised, and glowering after their night in the cells.

“What happened?” Killian picked a sailor at random as they finally got moving. “Specifically to Mr. Barnhardt, and skip the 'we didn't start it' formalities just this once.”

“Dunno, sir. Wasn't even much of a punch-up. Everybody figured him for drunk 'til we got there,” Jimmy glanced back at the tower. “Got knifed in the back, looked like. Some way to go, after all of these years.”

“And no indication of who had done it?”

“Dark as the pit in that place. I got this from Robb there.” Jimmy touched the bruise on his cheek ruefully. “Nobody saw nothin'. Wasn't none of us drew steel, though, I swear. No call for that. Whoever it was had the knife out, they dropped it or lit out right quick.”

Killian had lost more crew than he felt like counting over the years to such acts of chance. The timing bothered him, but as the man said, things happened. They said no more about it. The _Jolly Roger_ hummed with activity, the previous day's lavish spending made visible as supplies were hauled on board.

Emmett had set up on deck to interview replacements for the two hands they were losing. He took the news about Adam with a grimace and scrubbed a dark hand over his hair.

“Damn shame. Word's gone around, everyone ought to be aboard by morning. Found a couple of decent hands, and then this fellow showed up. Was just about to send him home. Stroke of luck, what?”

Killian glanced at the waiting prospect. “And who might you be?” A fair young fellow, burly and bright-eyed, he looked about the ship with a properly appreciative regard.

“Joseph Kepp, sir, but they call me Top.” The fellow turned his head to display a left ear missing most of its upper portion. They went over his prior voyages in detail, and then more delicately what he'd done during the recent war. “Conscript for the old bastard,” he said without hedging. “Did my service, wasn't sorry to see him go, and that was more than enough of landside war for me. Prefer a good ship underneath.”

“He'll do. Sort things out,” Killian told Emmett. He left the deck in the mate's hands and went below to dash off a note for Liam and then nap until sunset. The familiar surroundings and noise from above soothed his restless thoughts into quietude. A bit less rum in the future, perhaps... but he said that every time.

*

_Four years ago_

“I have something for you to do,” Maelstrom said, appearing in the middle of the bedroom.

At the desk, Killian jumped. “Bloody—don't _do_ that. What are you talking about? And keep your voice down.” He looked at the door. Since their return from Neverland, the _Jewel of the Realm_ had changed her colors and persuaded three of Liam's fellow captains to do the same. A good start, but they had next to persuade some of the nobility to go along with them. Liam was aiming high. His Grace the Duke had not agreed yet, but he had not refused, either; they expected his decision within a day. Even late at night, the castle seemed to hum with uncertainty.

“No one can hear us. I told you, a few errands and favors, trifling little things?”

“Yes. You did mention that.” He had not expected to see the creature again so soon. “What is it, then?”

“I want you to steal something.”

He opened his mouth for an indignant refusal and stopped.

“Exactly.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Just a little book.” The demon walked a quick circle as if to catalog the room and sniffed. “Though melting down some of these statues would be a service to the immortal world. I do like this one.” Maelstrom paused before a large gilt figure of St. Lenora and the Dragon.

“You would.” The position of the two bodies and the saint's expression suggested a novel concept of mortal combat on the part of the sculptor. Killian had been using it for a coat rack. “A book containing what?”

“You're smart, but you ask too many questions. Nothing that concerns you at this time. I can even tell you where it is.”

“Then why can't you get it yourself?”

“That doesn't concern you, either.”

“Very well. Where?” He settled back into his chair to hear the details, and consoled himself that at least it was just a book.

The act itself was horrifically easy. If Lieutenant Jones had a reputation for anything, it was for trustworthiness. His brother was often in close conference with the duke and his advisers. No one thought twice about it when Killian walked into His Grace's (unoccupied) study and walked back out with a stack of maps and a small ledger. The maps went to the large room where new plans for revolution were being drawn up with every hour. The ledger went to Maelstrom.

“Nicely done.” The demon opened its leather cover and flipped though some of the pages.

“You're welcome.” The contents of the volume were in code. Plain curiosity had prompted Killian to copy some of the pages, in case he might divine their meaning later. He saw no reason to mention that. “Look, I can't have you just appearing in places. Someone's likely to notice, magic or no magic. Don't you have some more subtle method of communication?”

“I'll see if I can think of one. Until next time.” Maelstrom vanished.

The oddest thing about all of it so far was that no one could tell. Killian felt like his compromised state ought to be visible, a brand that anyone might remark on any moment. No one had yet done so, and dinner that night proved no exception. If he was quieter than usual, no one thought anything of it.

“Heading out, Jones. Don't suppose you're coming?” The younger officers from the other ships often went into town. Word had begun to spread that something unusual was happening at the castle, and their company was in high demand. Given that Killian invariably demurred, inviting him had become something of a ritual joke.

This time he said, “I think I might join you. Just this once.”

More than one staggered in feigned shock. “Don't worry, we'll go easy on you.” “Like hell we will! This is a momentous occasion.” “We might be about to witness a miracle, my friends.”

Killian managed a smile. “I wouldn't count on that.”

*

_(Present day)_

Across the river from the city, a crumbling monastery stood atop the limestone bluff. Her Majesty had been too busy to address trifles such as whether dueling ought to be outlawed. The city guards would break it up, however, and so this windy, weed-grown ruin had become the favored site.

Killian paid a boatsman to take him across the river. Fair weather meant heavy traffic and slow progress. By the time he reached the path at the base of the bluff, he had resigned himself to being barely in time. The sun had begun to set as he climbed, throwing half of the switchbacks into shadow. So much effort for such a lot of nonsense, what—

The first shot brushed his collar; the second knocked a divot of clay out of the earth as he threw himself forward. From the inadequate shelter of the cool stone, he heard running feet on the path above, headed up. Killian moved cautiously to follow, in case there was more than one, but no additional shots came.

Possibilities fluttered vainly through his mind. They might have simply missed, shooting into the shadows and downhill. It might have been a warning. It might have been Graves, trying to avoid their appointment. It might have nothing to do with Graves, but with someone who had been aware of the matter—that was a large enough pool—or... or too many. The hard path showed no tracks, and an army might have hidden in the scrubby woodland that encroached on the old grounds.

He felt rather like he was wearing a large target as he crossed the open space, but nothing moved outside the ruin, and inside were only the awkward figure of Lord Graves and a manservant.

Graves stopped fidgeting with his gloves to look Killian up and down “You might have dressed.”

“This doesn't show the blood as much.” He crossed that possibility off the list. Graves had no deceit in him whatsoever; he had not been behind the shots. Which meant Killian still didn't have any excuse to kill him. “I don't suppose you heard a shot just now?”

“I did not.” Graves squinted suspiciously. “What would anyone be shooting up here for?”

“Perhaps it was a rock falling.” The landscape, the wind, Graves' general inattentiveness... it was possible. “And I suppose you're determined to do this.”

“You insulted my lady wife. I will have satisfaction.”

“I rather think I paid her a compliment, all things considered. But as you insist, let's get on with it.”

On another day, Killian might have given in to the temptation to make this amusing. He was too vexed with the world for that. What the hell was going on? Lord Graves had no idea what he was about with a sword and they both knew it, but he stepped up willingly enough and took his cut without whimpering.

“I suppose I'll be seeing you about town, then.” Graves scowled as his arm was bandaged.

“I fear you'll be spared the pleasure. Duty calls.” He hated to sail off with this unresolved, but Her Majesty's orders did not permit any further delay.

“In that case, I suppose I must wish you good fortune.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. Good evening.”

No further adventure lay in wait as Killian returned to the ship, and the night passed quietly. The first mate, George Avery, strolled aboard at daybreak, as he always did. Another of Liam's holdovers, no one ever saw him while they were in port. He had a family and a house in a respectable part of town, and never said why he had remained with the ship.

The final tasks were done. The harbormaster came by to try to get them to hire a pilot. Killian had been taking ships out of this harbor unaided since he was fifteen, and proceeded to do so again. A fitful breeze took them out past the lighthouse, and then the _Jolly Roger_ turned east, toward the lands of magic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we (finally) introduce our other main character.

_(Present day)_

The first thing Killian Jones ever said to Milah was, “You have ink on your fingers.”

She looked down at her hands. “I suppose I do. What of it?”

“This doesn't appear to be a town of scholars.” An earring glittered against his dark hair as he looked around the inn's noisy main room, then back at her with open question.

“I was drawing, if you must know.” She braced herself for ridicule, but the stranger only raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that would explain it.” He turned back to his conversation. When the next round arrived, Milah found herself holding a full mug she had not asked for.

Foreign accents had drawn her to the table. In a town where everyone knew everyone else, where a chance to meet someone you didn't actually see _every_ day passed for excitement, newcomers were noteworthy. People in town knew Milah, but they didn't look at her the way the villagers did, and so she took every chance she could to make the trip. Even if she was never going to see anything new, she could at least hear about it, could take the stories home and make up pictures to go with them. She listened, and didn't even taste the beer, or the one that came after it. One of the sailors noticed how intently she was attending; he budged over and made room for her on the bench.

“You shouldn't believe a word of that,” their captain said to her when the fellow had finished his tale.

“Oh, I don't. But it was a very good story. I'd like to hear another,” she added.

“I wouldn't encourage him if I were you.”

“Does that mean you have a better one?” Milah wasn't sure what to make of his tone, or the mischief in his eyes. She thought it was something more than the fraternal teasing they all employed.

“Absolutely.” He held her gaze a moment longer, amused and inviting.

She tried to blame her high color on the room's warmth. There were some dice games after that, more drinks and outrageous tales from lands she had never even heard of. Milah soon lost track of time. Then someone called her name near the door, and laughter fled from her.

*

 _At least try._ Milah feigned sleep and listened to the creaking of the spinning wheel. That too fell silent. She heard Rumple moving around the room, blowing out the last candle. The bed shifted as he climbed into it. They didn't touch. What was there to try for?

In the morning she got up first as usual, collected the eggs and joined the line of women at the well.

“Heard you had quite the social evening,” Tilda said, hauling up the bucket.

“I went to town. Had a few drinks.” She set her own pail on the well's stone lip. “That's all.”

“That's not how I heard it. Vagabonds and more than likely pirates _?_ I should think they've got fleas.”

“I didn't _do_ anything but talk to them.” Milah set her jaw. What business was it of anyone else's either way?

“Of course not, dear.” Tilda walked off with her buckets, but threw back over her shoulder, “No one blames you.”

“Why do I bother,” Milah muttered to the circle of dark water below. Every bloody day, the same as the day before it. The cottage door banged. She looked that way and saw Rumple limping off toward the sheep pen. With a sudden sense of distance she watched him open the pen and collect the animals, off to a day of watching them graze. He seldom spoke to anyone but her and Bae, and he seemed happy that way. She could no more understand it than she could the speech of birds.

Milah carried her pail into the house and set to her own work, but she kept finding herself distracted, the loom's shuttle slowing in her hands. She stared at the grubby window with its curtain of sacking, at the table that wobbled, at the wool waiting to be spun, at the sad little stack of daydreams scratched out on paper.

_It can be good._

“Baelfire. Go over to Widow Grimly's and help her with her carding. I'll be back before sundown.”

“Yes, mama.”

She kissed his forehead and watched him go, felt a splinter slide into her heart. Once the door of their neighbor's house had closed behind him, Milah set off along the road to town. Halfway there it started raining, thin and steady. If that was an omen, she ignored it and pressed on. She didn't have a difficult time finding the visitors; the town only had one tavern. Nor was there any possibility of mistaking Killian, a splash of black and scarlet amid the brown and grey wool of the townsfolk.

“You're back. Milah, wasn't it?” He looked pleased.

“I'm surprised you remember.”

“I wasn't that drunk. Come and dry off.” The four of them had claimed the table nearest the fire. The town was not used to armed and confident visitors.

“I'm also surprised that you're still here.” She brushed damp hair out of her face and perched on the bench opposite him, happy for the warmth.

“We're not in that much of a hurry. No sense setting out in this weather.”

“How long are you staying, then?”

“Day after tomorrow. The rain will have stopped by then.” He sounded certain of it. “Not that it hasn't been a most unexpected pleasure stopping here for a bit. So what is it that you draw?”

“Just things I hear stories about.”

He gestured encouragement. “Like what?”

She drank less this time and talked more, aware of her treacherously fast heartbeat. Men expressed interest in her on occasion. Ordinarily, Milah paid them no mind; she had enough trouble with the man she'd already got. None of them had ever asked her anything beyond her availability.

She kept track of the hour and was home in time for another silent evening that soon passed into night. Rain and mice rustled in the thatch. She hardly slept, bedeviled by blue eyes, white sails, a kind of warmth she had thought lost years ago. In her dreams the cottage walls came down around her.

Milah watched Bae go off with Rumple in the morning, two brown-cloaked figures in the drizzle. That afternoon, the smell of wet wool followed her like a ghost as she made her way back to town. The weather had kept some of the usual crowd at home and left the inn quieter than usual, but her arrival was greeted with hails from what had evidently become their regular table. She waited for a lull in the conversation, for the others to turn their attention elsewhere.

As soon as she and Killian were alone, she said, “I have a... request.”

“And what's that?” He angled his head to look at her.

She clenched her hands on her skirt and said, “Take me with you. I can't stay here any longer.”

One eyebrow went up. “Why? Or why not, I suppose.”

“You met the reason the other night.”

“That bad?” He glanced past her with a shake of his head; she looked that way to see one of the crew retreating, warned off by his captain's gesture. Their privacy thus assured, Killian returned his attention to her, arms folded on the table before him. “Tell me.”

Milah bit her lip. “All right. We've been trading stories – let me tell you one about my husband, about that winter. ” She had never had to tell this tale; everyone knew it. The fire crackled behind her as a log shifted. “There were seven of us, whose men all went in that draft. The last ones from our village. The strong ones had already gone. Most of them never came back. This time they took the small ones, the poor ones, too. We all spent that winter wondering what was happening, helped each other get through storms and babies and sick sheep however we could. And then in the early spring, a cart came with some wounded from the next village over, and the driver brought news. Everyone came out to hear it, right around the well near our cottage. There had been a large battle, he said. They were all dead, everyone in that... that group, in the army. Gone.

“And in the midst of all of the shock and the noise, he said _All of them except for one_. And he looked at me.” She remembered feeling certain that she was going to faint. Remembered hearing Bae fussing his cradle through the open cottage door. Remembered the looks on all of their faces. “All except for Rumple, because he wasn't there.” She took another breath, this one through clenched teeth. “He told them it was an accident, you know. That he had been moving supplies and the cart shifted, that's how he hurt his leg, but everyone knew. He was too frightened to fight, and he was the only one of them all who came back. Out of all of those women, only my husband lived, when so many men were dead. Because he was a coward. And not a one of them has ever let me forget it for so much as a day. Not one has said a word to me since then that didn't have a sting in its tail, has offered me a hand or—and why should they? They've had to go on alone. I've tried, I've—I can't spend the rest of my life like this.”

“I see.”

“We used to talk about leaving. Together. Starting over. He won't even talk, now. Why should I spend the rest of _my_ life paying for what he did?” She looked down and unclenched her hands. “So if I'm not leaving on your ship, I'm leaving some other way. Because it's that or drown myself.”

“I'm sure nothing so drastic will be necessary.” Killian refilled her cup. He looked thoughtful. “It's not our usual line of work, but I suppose we could take a passenger down the coast a ways.”

“It would be a start. I don't want another town just like this one, not forever. I want to see something new, do something new. To _live_. Not—not be buried here, still walking around.”

“Ah. That is a very different request.”

“I know.” She braced herself, but he appeared to be giving it serious thought.

“It's not an easy life.”

“Do you think that farming is?”

“I suppose not, but at least you have the _option_ of being warm and dry in inclement weather.” He glanced at the streaming windows. “And we do, on occasion, come into contact with violent and unscrupulous people.”

“I am shocked.”

“I can tell.”

“I'm not afraid. Not of that, anyway.”

“You aren't, are you.” He considered her. “What will you do if I say no?”

Her heart sank, but Milah shrugged and said, “Wait for the next ship. Or walk? I might just walk.” She felt like a new-hatched chick, exhausted and exhilarated by the abrupt change in her horizon. “I know it's dangerous, but... damned if I do, damned if I don't? I may as well do it.”

“Hm. Given that particular dilemma, I always vote 'do.' Life becomes far more interesting that way.” Killian clinked his cup against hers. They drank. After a little while he said, “We are heading north tomorrow, but not for long. We can stop here again when we turn about. If you still want to leave a week from now—you shan't have to walk, I promise.”

She stared at him, trying to divine the truth from his eyes. He looked a little rueful, she thought, but serious. If all he wanted was to bed her, this was an odd way to go about it.

“I've no reason at all to lie to you,” he said. “And I keep my word.”

“Why north? There's nothing there.”

“Nothing but stories.” Killian smiled. “As I've lately been reminded, you never know what you'll find.”

“All right. I'll wait that long.” She smiled back, giddy and warm. The next morning she put all of her drawings on the fire; she wouldn't need them any more. Rumple never noticed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian goes on an adventure in the Enchanted Forest.

_(Present day)_

The _Jolly Roger_ did sail north the following day, but her captain was not aboard.

“Not willing to part with any of the others, then?” Killian eyed the horse. Outside the stableyard, the town had begun waking up. Carts moved through the streets, people called greetings and opened their businesses.

“Not for any money.” The woman shook her head. “These beasts are my family, milord, raised them with my own hands, and my livelihood too. Wouldn't wish a poor widow into the streets to beg, would you?”

“Surely not.” From the practiced way in which she was overcharging him, Killian doubted her livelihood was in any danger. The town was short on animals for hire. He didn't want to buy the damn thing, but he was in a hurry. “Very well. I suppose we'll get used to one another.” An hour later the chestnut had already tried to bite him, and they were headed out the town gate. On this sunny morning after the recent rain, the countryside looked placid and welcoming. The fields had been worked in long strips, the old way. Everything in this land seemed old, as if time had slowed down. Sheep and a few cows nosed around the pastures. A windmill turned lazily on the hilltop.

He turned north at the crossroads. The fields gave way to woodland, then to fields again and a village. The road forked; a sign informed him that two miles to the northwest lay the duke's castle. That was not his destination.

 _An errand, that's all, just a little favor, nothing to fuss over,_ Maelstrom had said. Smirking bastard. If only there was a way to hurt a being of uncertain corporeality, or even really to insult a creature of the netherworld.

By afternoon there were no more villages. A white stone marked the boundary of the duke's land. The road became less certain as the trees thickened, as if he had fallen another step backwards in time.

“That sort of nonsense is not going to get you anywhere at all, lad,” Killian told himself. He hated being alone with his thoughts for so long. Not that he found a constant need for company, but aboard ship or in the city, one might be alone without feeling the pressure of the silence. The topics that came to mind were ones that made him want a drink, and he dare not dull his alertness so close to ogre territory.

He ought to be thinking about ogres, not about a pair of jade eyes brimming with anger, not about want and need and where they blurred. What in God's name had he been thinking to make that promise? Milah was attractive, yes, but the cities of the world were full of attractive women. That he had enjoyed her company so much was all the more reason he ought to have taken her on board for a few hours, slipped her some cash, and wished her godspeed in a new life.

Two years, ten months, and a few odds and ends of days left.

*

_(Four years ago)_

“Not quite sure how to put this... is everything all right?” Liam asked. On the far side of the table, Killian had been communing with a cup for a solid half hour. The _Jewel_ sailed on through the darkness. Patrols had become necessary in the past few weeks, with two enemies to beware of now. The war had not stopped, after all, just because some of them had elected an additional fight.

Killian looked up. “Given the circumstances, oughtn't I be asking you that?” They had sunk one of their own that afternoon, a victory no one felt much like celebrating. Other than the regular clang of the watch bells, silence hung over the ship.

“We couldn't afford to let them go.” Nothing had changed, and everything had changed when he gave the order to fire. Long after the battle's end, a dull pain lingered around the back of his skull.

“I know that.”

“I suppose I expected you to object.” Liam got up and paced the two steps allowed by the cabin. The gilt mermaids that stood between each of the aft windows all had their eyes closed, their arms crossed, beautiful and dead. He turned away from them.

Killian shook his head. “You have my whole-hearted support in this. Never doubt it. We need to make it clear to the kingdom at large that this is serious, and that we have a chance of success, before winter comes down. Simple as that.”

“Is it.” As simple, and as complicated. Perhaps he was only trying to distract himself from the enormity of it by concentrating on something trivial, but the detachment in his brother's tone worried Liam more than his recent about-face regarding liquor.

“Worry over how we're going to get supplies out here come midwinter if you want to, but not about me. If only because Aunt Ettie would never forgive me for causing you trouble.” He lifted the cup in admonishing salute.

“I'll try. I wonder if she's gotten the news.” Liam could only hope that she would not suffer unduly for her nephews' treason. He rubbed the back of his head.

“Almost certainly. One way or another, we are going to be famous,” Killian pointed out with a grin.

Liam could not help a wry chuckle. “True.”

“I expect she's knitting something useful even as we speak, and organizing the neighbors to smuggle powder for us. And is that my captain hinting that I ought to withdraw?”

“I suppose.” Liam dropped his hand and hesitated, looking at him, but saw nothing concrete on which to hang his unease.

“Then get some sleep. You never know what the dawn will bring.”

*

_(Present day)_

“You know what may be the stupidest thing people always say? That there's no going back now. There's _never_ any going back.” Killian looked at the rise ahead, at the lack of anything like a path, at the slant of the light. “Bloody useless sort of land; no one has any maps.” He dismounted. “Come on, then. We'll have to find a way up before it gets dark. Bite me again and I'll use you for bait.”

Those hours of talk at the inn had not been without purpose. If he went north for a full day, he would be outside the land known by humans. Ogres lived there, and other things known only to rumor. They had first come in force a generation ago, and returned ever since like some horrible tide.

“Why?” Killian had asked, and everyone had shrugged. Like drought or weevils, ogres simply were. They came; they fought; they went away. “And your king doesn't do anything about this?” More shrugs. They _had_ a king, they were certain of that much, but were a little vague on the fellow's name—Haggan, or had that been the one two years back? There had been several in quick succession, and none had made the journey to this frontier land. Probably the duke was happy to keep it that way. He certainly didn't appear to be putting any tax money into the roads.

The moon had drifted above the horizon by the time Killian got himself and the horse up the incline. He found a stream and a sheltered cranny in which to spend the night, weapons at hand. Another half day of walking, most of it uphill, and they left the forest behind for a less promising landscape of bare hills and broken rocks overgrown by straggling bushes. Perhaps it was not to wonder the ogres came down into the green forests. Killian found a stream and left the horse there, loosely tied. If he didn't come back, the beast ought to to have a chance on its own.

Of course, he was going to come back. He might be the biggest fool to be found in a hundred miles, but he had a promise to keep. Even unnatural monsters needed water. Killian set out upstream.

“They're blind. Even at size, how threatening can the damn things be?” he had inquired back in town.

The man with one leg had laughed. “Easy to say when they're not coming down overtop of you some night, twenty foot tall and roaring fit to deafen a body. And blind? Aye, blind in their eyes! They can hear a man's heart beat a quarter mile off. There's no walls can stop one. They'll sniff a body out, rip stone apart with their hands to get blood. And the damn things won't drop for naught. I seen one mobbed by twenty men, didn't go down until it took a shot dead into its eye.”

To which Killian did _not_ say, “Then why in hell is your duke messing about with swords and pikes rather than arming everyone in this land with a longbow or preferably a musket?” The locals had no notion of firearms; more than one had asked in all innocence what manner of device his pistol might be. His mission was to find out how the place worked, not to correct their strategic deficiencies.

Noon passed. The sun grown uncomfortably warm. Rabbits, squirrels, and a few wary goats watched him. He envied all of them their climbing skills by the time he found what he had been hoping for. At the base of a cliff, the stream grew shallow, bounded by a wide, sloping shelf of bare rock on one side. A creature might drink here and think itself safe from attack. The dim line of an animal trail wound off through the brush on both sides.

Killian found a shaded spot above the path and settled to waiting. He could spend hours at a ship's wheel or aloft, weeks in the confines of a vessel that would fit entire into some ballrooms, and never feel a moment's restlessness for it. The rock beneath him, however, grew less comfortable by the moment. He dozed, paced, checked his weapons, and wondered what the crew was up to. He was supposed to meet them in three days, then return south. Perhaps Milah would change her mind in that time. He convinced himself that he didn't care.

A few goats and a gray fox came to drink as evening fell. Moonlight stippled the landscape black and deceptively bright. Two hours before dawn, a breeze sighed through the bushes. The rattle of branches brought Killian to painful alert. He got up and stretched, paced a few steps loosen his stiff joints and paused. Something had changed. No woodsman, he yet felt an atavistic prickle run down his spine at the abrupt silence of the night. The insects ceased their hum. He caught himself holding his breath.

The veterans in the tavern had neglected to mention the reek that preceded the ogre. Nor had they conveyed its speed. It moved in a crouch, club in one hand, the other feeling the path ahead of it. It paused as it drew near his position. Its head moved back and forth as if trying to pinpoint a sound; it held its club higher.

Killian had thought to have a bit more time, that something so large would make more noise in approaching. He cocked the pistol, the click very loud and out of place in the silent land. The ogre's enormous head came around; the tip of its club moved back, telegraphing the strike to come.

He braced the pistol, fired, and moved without waiting to see the effect, half-sliding down the rocky slope directly under the arc of the descending club. It missed him by inches. A bellow that shook the surrounding stone, and then the impact of club and body. The ogre twitched a few times and lay still. He got to his feet and watched it for a few minutes from a distance, ready to fire again. Blood leaked onto the rocks. The night creatures remained silent. He exhaled finally.

“That went well, I think.”

Killian pried open the ogre's mouth with his sword, then found a rock that fit his hand nicely. He had done a lot of dubious things in the past few years, but this felt like a new low. He worked quickly, grateful for the wide emptiness of the land even it frayed his nerves. The dull sound of rock against bone echoed and died.

Ogre's teeth, taken under a full moon; another item from Maelstrom's enigmatic list. The grisly items safely stowed, Killian rinsed his hands in the stream, then looked south. He wouldn't get lost, but he might well break his neck trying some of those slopes by moonlight. Better that than hang about until something else showed up, however.

He looked back once at the massive corpse and wished that he hadn't.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milah leaves home and starts her new life aboard the Jolly Roger.

_(present day)_

Milah finished her chores, kissed Baelfire's forehead and sent him off. She feared that her hands would shake, but he noticed nothing. She watched him go, then pinned her shawl and set off for town as she had a hundred times before. Fields stretched under the afternoon sun, as fine a day as she had ever seen. Step after step, she felt herself a dreaming passenger as her feet took her down the dry road. Stone fences and trees she had known all her life fell behind as she came down the hill. The mill followed suit, and a neighbor driving a trio of disinterested pigs to town for the next day's market.

She did not for a moment expect the ship to be there. When she rounded the last turn and saw two slim masts above the small fleet of fishing boats, Milah stopped. Her own heartbeat filled her ears. She looked back once the way she had come, then went on. Familiar noise and bustle surrounded her as she walked down to the dock.

She hesitated again at the end of the gangplank. A whistle rang out above the general activity, and someone called her name. A wave of cheerful profanity followed—surprise and occasional groans as shipmates were reminded of bets made on appearance. She contained her smile when Killian strolled over, clearly in no hurry.

“Milah.”

“Captain. You look like you had an eventful week,” Milah said, looking him up and down. “Find any stories?”

“None worth the telling, I'm afraid. Changed your mind?” He looked her over just as frankly, his tone light.

“No. What makes you say that?”

“You don't appear to have packed.”

“There's not a single thing from this place that I want to remember.” That was not entirely true. She wore her mother's earrings, and a brass locket with a snippet of brown hair curled inside. Anything else she had, Rumple was welcome to it.

“I see. Come aboard, then, and we'll get you settled.” Killian offered his her his hand. A few of the sailors clapped and whistled. “That's enough, you lot. If you'll come this way?”

“Thank you.” She followed him below, to a narrow room lined with bunks and shelves on both sides. The ship moved beneath her, unfamiliar and thrilling.

“We can talk once we're under way. Until then—”

“I'll keep out of the way,” Milah said with an understanding nod and watched him go. She put a hand against the wall, surprised to find it solid. Her stomach fluttered, and her breath came too quickly as giddy relief swept over her. The unknown yawned ahead—freedom. Snatches of conversation floated down to her, full of words she did not know, the crew members laughing or grumbling as they went about their duties. Milah took a few steadying breaths and began to explore the room.

It had never crossed her mind that Rumple might try to follow her. She looked in confusion at the sailor who brought the news that “some sad sorry lot, walks with a stick” was on his way toward the ship.

“Is he alone?” she asked. She did not know what she would do if he had brought Bae again.

“Aye.”

Relief flooded her. “I don't have anything to say to him. Not now, not ever again.”

“We'll send him right along, then, miss. Not to worry.” He winked and vanished. Milah wrapped herself more tightly in her shawl. She meant to go, she was going, she had made up her mind and done it. He had no business coming after her now, not when he had made it plain for the past year and more that he didn't care at all.

  


By the time Rumple's footsteps faded from hearing, Milah had regained her composure. She examined her new surroundings, and grew so absorbed that she jumped when Killian appeared in the doorway.

“What an appalling person,” he said. “I don't think he'll be back.”

“Thank you.” She tried to think of something else to say and looked around to hide her uncertainty. “You have books on this ship.”

“You'll be amazed at how little there is to do sometimes.”

“More books than we have in the entire village. What sort of land do you come from?”

“One with books.” He leaned against the doorframe and smiled. “Though I fear most of these are of a dully practical nature, there are a few more entertaining volumes about. You'll have time, I'm sure, depending on how long you're to stay with us.” He paused. “The last time we spoke, it seemed you have no particular destination in mind.”

“I don't. I've never been anywhere, so how would I know where to go? Just—not here, not anywhere remotely _like_ here.”

“The world is full of places that ought to meet that description.” He sounded reserved, as if he might be having second thoughts.

“I'll make myself useful. I don't know anything about ships,” she added in honesty, “but I can learn.”

“I have no doubt of that whatsoever.” Something unreadable flickered across his expression as he said it. “I shall deliver you into Emmett's capable hands, then.”

Emmett turned out to be a short, dark-skinned man with gray salted through his hair and obvious experience with green hands. He showed Milah about the ship, answered her questions, and found her a hammock with an air of amused tolerance.

“No lectures about how a woman ought to be minding her house and a baby?” she asked.

“Be a little late for that, eh? You're not the first we've had,” the mate said with a shrug. “If a lass has a yen to go for a sailor, and the work suits, who's to say? Now then. Let's find out if you suit.”

The first few days passed in a blur, one long test. Was she afraid of heights? Noises? Being shouted at? Jostled? Knives? How much could she carry? How quickly? Up a ladder? Up a rope? Were her hands quick, slow, sloppy, neat? Come evening, did she remember the new words she had learned in the morning? Every night she fell into the hammock's embrace, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds: men snoring, footsteps on the deck above, and the regular clang of the watch bells.

She didn't complain. The work was no worse than lambing season. She tried not to think of him, about how far away her home already was. If anyone wanted her off the ship, they didn't say so in her hearing. Meanwhile, the _Jolly Roger_ sailed south in no great hurry. She put in at little towns on the mainland or sailed out to the islands that dotted the coast. Their progress seemed quite aimless to Milah.

“I expected more incident,” she confessed after two weeks of this meandering.

“What, non-stop pillaging?” Top grinned. “Too much like work. Not much worthwhile traffic in these parts when it comes to cargo. Fishermen haven't got anything we'd want. Timber and wool'd be a pain in the arse to shift.”

“I suppose.” Milah glanced to the shore, barely in sight to the east. The mountains had dropped away a week before. The new landscape was lower, and its dusty green spoke of dry brush and grass, not the pine forests she knew. The wind played coy this afternoon, the ship making little headway.

“Don't tell me you're bored already?”

“No! I like this.” She looked at the rope in her hands, then to the boundless western sea. “It's better. It's....” She trailed off with a shrug. It was all she had wanted, watching the world change around her almost daily, walking streets she had never seen before, hearing new tales at every stop. “I like it.”

“Thought so. We'll see some action soon, I bet. Captain won't want us rusting.”

“You've done this a lot, I suppose.” She had noticed the half-missing ear.

“First time out with this ship. But I have heard stories.”

“And what do those say?”

“Lot of stuff that sounds kind of crazy, to be honest, from back in the day. Look, I was in the army. I know what happens when a rumor travels five miles, never mind five hundred. But some of these fellows here swear it all happened. You were there, weren't you?” He invited one of the nearby hands to join the conversation.

“I was,” Whipple said. “And I'd take it bad you calling it crazy, but if I hadn't been there I might agree. This lass flew like a bird, she did.” He patted the rail. “Like she'd been made to from the start. No ordinary wood in this one. Seen some sights since then, too.”

“Do tell.” Milah hadn't heard that story yet, and listened, enthralled. To fly among the stars, to see things never touched by mortal eyes.... “I should think he would have mentioned that one.” She glanced aft, to where Killian kept an eye over his ship. Whether that included keeping an eye on Milah, she could not tell. They had not been alone since the day she came on board, and she had been too busy adjusting to give that any thought.

“Never does.” Whipple shook his head. “F'you ask me, something _happened_ over there. If we're ever ashore when the eighteenth of the month rolls around, you can count on him going on a bender. And that was the day we came back from that cursed land.”

“Maybe so, maybe no. I called it the day we shipped out,” Tom said. “Anybody that buttoned down's just waiting to tear loose. Count on it.”

“He's better than some, mind,” Billy added. “I've served with a few had to be scraped off the deck every night. He's got his little ways—they all do—but a fine captain.”

“Oh, aye. None better. You could drop this ship anywhere in the world and put a blindfold on that lad, and he'd steer her home true.”

Talk turned to other ships they had known, to captains who loved the lash for its own sake, or had too fine a regard for their own skins, or tried to cheat the crew out of their pay—an altogether more serious matter than cheating at dice, Milah gathered.

The wind picked up in the afternoon. They put in at one of the coastal towns as the day waned, an isolated place with little activity on the docks. A couple of heavy-set men strolled down the dock and looked over the _Jolly Roger_. The man in the lead was well-dressed, with a medallion on a fine gold chain; the other had a rougher look.

“Evening,” the first one said. “Captain about?”

“That would be me.” Killian leaned on the rail. “What can I do for you?”

“Rayne,” the man introduced himself, with a touch to his chain. “Mayor. Nice ship. Don't believe I've seen you here before.”

“You haven't. We're from the west.”

“That so. Have to do an inspection.”

“Well, if you must. It's rather delicate cargo. Been looking for a market for weeks now without any luck. Come aboard.”

“That so,” the man repeated, and lumbered up the plank with his guard close behind. The latter remained on deck, scowling as he looked about

Milah followed the others' lead and kept quiet. Rayne stayed below only a few minutes, but she noted the smile on his broad, whiskered face as he took his leave. No doubt a handsome bribe had been employed, but why?

“Take precautions,” the word came down from the first mate. “Nobody goes alone. Don't start any trouble.”

Their previous stops had not occasioned such a warning. As juniormost of the crew, Milah was already used to being left to kick her heels aboard ship their first night in port, along with Top, Eddy, and Allan. When Emmett stayed as well, however, she gave him a surprised look.

“Just in case,” he said.

“Place looks quiet enough.” Lamps and candles sprang to life as dusk fell. The only activity on the dock was aboard the fishing boats as they prepared for the morning.

“It ought to. This is a smuggling town.” He pointed out the disguised fortifications, the narrow streets, the lines of the other ships in dock.

“I see. Are we smuggling anything?”

“Depends on the laws hereabouts, but they certainly think we are.” He shrugged. “Wouldn't hurt to do some business, long as we're here.”

“This ship is certainly a flexible place.”

Emmett grinned.

That night and the next passed without incident. A few locals visited; a few barrels changed hands. Milah went out in the afternoons and explored the town, delighted by every unfamiliar street, by the fact that none of the passing faces knew her name. She amused herself by imagining a shadowy secret role for each of them – did that ox driver have a false bottom in his cart? Did that old woman's shawl conceal an assassin's knife? Despite her resolution, she wondered what Baelfire would make of the place, and if they had gotten used to her absence yet there.

As evening fell again, Milah turned her steps back toward the ship. An unexpected sense of familiarity brought her up short, looking for its source. She would not have thought herself able to recognize Killian by his walk. An open door spilled lamplight into the street and outlined the captain as he went into a tavern.

He stayed inside only a few minutes before emerging along with the guard who had been on the dock with the mayor. By the time Milah had made up her mind to approach, they were halfway around the nearest corner. By the time she thought to wonder whether she ought to do it, she was following them.

Their destination proved to be a small, dilapidated structure on a narrow street. The guard tapped at a lopsided shutter. Light bloomed behind it, as if someone had opened a dark lantern. They went in. Milah hesitated. She was new to this life. Whatever business Killian had with the mayor's man was almost certainly none of hers.

Approaching footsteps startled her. It sounded like several people wearing boots. Inside the house, something thumped. A ringing sound followed—someone had drawn a sword.

“Hell.” Milah looked around. The light had almost gone from the sky, and there would be no moon tonight. She had a knife, but little enough idea of how to use it on any creature but a lamb. She found a brick by stumbling over it and picked it up, just as someone fell backwards through the door.

It wasn't Killian or the man he had been with, though he wore a similar cloak to the latter. On that basis and his drawn weapon, Milah felt justified in bringing the brick down on his head as he started to get up. The light that came through the remains of the door wavered as someone knocked over the lantern. Steel clattered on steel inside. She picked up the first man's sword and went in to the remaining man had Killian cornered. The fellow stepped back and glanced toward Milah as she entered. His surprise on seeing her instead of his comrade lasted long enough for her to throw her brick at his head, and his distraction when he ducked gave Killian a chance to run him through.

“Where's the other fellow?” the captain asked.

“Unconscious, I hope. But there's more on the way.”

“Splendid.” Killian stooped and retrieved a leather pouch from the fallen guard. “Out the back.”

Milah picked up the fallen lantern and dashed it hard against the remains of the front door, then followed him down the lightless alley until it came out in a wider street. The noise behind them suggested that at least some of the guards were busy putting out the fire.

“This way,” Killian said. They crossed the rutted cobblestone street and down another narrow passage. “And don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see where you were going.”

“And were you pleased to find out?”

“I should think you might be. What's in the pouch?”

“Let's find some light and see.” They zig-zagged through the dark streets until they found a tavern with a lamp outside the door.

“Aren't they going to come after you? Us?”

“Perhaps, but they won't be in a hurry to explain themselves to their employer. Thieves I don't mind, but I can't abide a cheat. I had planned to pay them for their efforts, in case you were wondering.” He opened the pouch. “Hm.”

Milah reached out and tilted the opening toward the light. “That's fairy dust.” She kept her voice down with an effort. She had only heard of it before, but surely nothing of human make had that luster.

“So it is. Odd stuff. What fairies have to do with it, I can't fathom.”

“Do you _have_ fairies, in your land?”

“Aye, but it would appear they're of a different sort."

“That dust is magical. And therefore dangerous. Not something anyone should mess about with.” She realized that she was still holding the guard's sword, and looked for a place to put it down.

“Very true.” He closed the pouch and tucked it into an inner pocket of his coat. “Shall we return to the _Jolly Roger_? You may as well keep that,” he added. “You won it, after all.”

She looked at it, startled, and hefted the unfamiliar weight with more attention. “I suppose I did.” No sense in looking back. “Shall we, captain?”


	7. Chapter 7

_(present day)_

As much as it grated on Killian to do it, they slipped out of the port that night. Risky as it was with a moonless night and an unfamiliar harbor, he thought it better than to stay. They were strangers in this land, and it would be easy for the aggrieved mayor to whip up a force against them. Current events suggested that had been a wise decision.

“What've we got out there, Captain?” Emmett asked.

“Patience.” Killian trained the spyglass on the distant shape. That was one problem. The other was standing on the foredeck with the rest of the crew, waiting for his word. “When did you first mark them?”

“Couple of hours ago. They're gaining.”

He could see through the glass that the ship was too heavily crewed for an honest merchant. They were two days out from the little smuggling haven. Either Mayor Rayne had been even more annoyed than expected, or someone else had taken a predatory interest in the _Jolly Roger_.

“Aye,” Killian said at last, and lowered the glass. “We take her.”

A whoop erupted from the crew. They had been a long two months without a fight, and that last a poor one. The _Jolly Roger_ lowered sail, allowing the other ship to gain on her. After a few hours, her name could be read as the _Prince Henry_. Big and fast, a beautiful creature in her own right, she was about to get a very unpleasant surprise. Blissful simplicity beckoned, condensed the troubled kingdoms of the world to two ships, one of them doomed.

  
  


_(14 years ago)_

Gulls cried and fought over scraps on the docks a few streets away. Every other living thing in town had been flattened by the heat. Liam looked up at the house and straightened his jacket. He had no reason to feel this nervous. He climbed the steps and knocked on the second door.

“Hello.” A boy of about nine years looked him up and down.

“You must be Killian. You look just like father now.” Liam glanced past him. “Is he home?”

“He's out.” The boy's blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, then went wide again. “Liam?”

“Aye. I didn't think you would remember. You were about knee-high last time I saw you.”

“You're in uniform. I have all of your letters! What are you doing here?”

“Visiting. So, he's out?”

“Aye, 'til sundown. I could—” His face fell. “I'm not supposed to go out.”

“In trouble?” he guessed. Killian rolled his eyes. “Well, under the circumstances, I think he'll understand. Where do you suppose we might find him?”

Liam followed Killian down the stairs, trying to adjust. The last time he had seen his brother had been in a different town, and winter. Killian had been a mobile shock of dark hair then, just starting to talk more than a few words at a time. He was sun-browned now, all elbows and knees as he sprinted ahead through the unfamiliar streets, then doubled back for his slower sibling.

The street led slantwise down to the waterfront. They followed the sound of hammering to a cooper's shop near the end of the row. Four men sat working in their shirt sleeves, out where a breeze might wander through and relieve the heat.

“Killian, I told you to—” Halfway through the boy's explanation, their father looked up. “Well, well. Is that really you?”

“Aye. It is.”

“Well, well,” Evan said again, and set aside the plane and the stave he had been smoothing with it. “It's been a long time.”

“It has. You're looking well.”

“Could be worse. Boys,” he glanced at the other workers. “My oldest. _Lieutenant_ Jones, now, I see. Congratulations. Got your orders yet?”

“Next month. The _Gloriana_. I thought I may as well visit as write, before then.”

“Nice of you to come.” He approached like he wasn't sure what he ought to do, and settled on a nervous embrace.

“It's good to see you, father.” Liam returned it warmly.

A smile lightened the lined face as he stepped back. “How long you here for?”

“Just a few days, I'm afraid.”

“Better make the most of it, then. Bill—”

“Aye, go on then,” the other man waved. “These barrels aren't going anywhere tonight. See you tomorrow.”

“Thank ye'.”

They headed back, slowly. Killian asked endless questions about the journey, the city, and his ship. In between answers, Liam looked at their father and pondered what he might say. _So, you're working. So, you're still ashore. So, haven't taken up with any more women._

“So, how's Henrietta?” Evan asked.

“She's fine. She sends her love.”

This polite fiction regarding his sister's affection was allowed to pass without remark. He asked after the rest of the family. Liam passed along the news and the parcel his aunt had entrusted to him—a few useful odds and ends, and a discreet amount of money. The evening passed pleasantly enough, the night in restless and indifferent sleep.

Between the stifling heat and the noise elsewhere in the building, Liam gave up the effort some time after midnight. Instead he watched light steal into the small, barren room and wondered. They had had a house, once, in a little town like this one. Not a big house, but there had been light and flowers in the summer, warmth in the winter. His father's rare presence had meant foreign songs in the air, and smiles on his mother's face.

“I'm off for the shop,” Evan announced after breakfast. “You two don't get in any trouble, all right? Come by if you need anything. Killian, you can take the boat out, but do as Liam says and remember that you're still in trouble. Just suspended for the time being.”

“We'll be fine. See you later.” Liam watched him go with a certain shameful relief. He had thought it only proper to visit before his first real posting, but it seemed they were doomed to be awkward. Evan had spent most of his first son's early years at sea, and after his wife died had packed the boy off to his relatives in the city. They had the water in common and nothing else. Liam even took after his mother's looks.

“C'mon.” Killian interrupted his pensive thoughts. “Let's go.”

“Chores first. Or you'll be in trouble again.”

“Awww.”

Liam grinned. “I'll help. What did you do, anyway?”

“I'm not supposed to go out of the harbor.”

“Probably wise, at your age.”

“I'm not _little._ ” He said it with such withering scorn that Liam had to stifle a laugh.

“Of course not. Let's get this done, shall we? And then you can show me all around.”

Neither the work nor a tour of the town took very long. They ended at the docks. As boats went, the one Killian led him to wasn't much—open to the weather, and small—but Liam took comfort in its presence, a sign that not everything had changed. They spent most of the day on the water, not talking much.

“Do you like it here?” Liam asked as they headed back in.

“It's all right. We won't be here much longer anyway.”

“How do you figure?”

“It makes him sad.”

“What does?”

“This town. It always happens. We move and he's happy, and then a few months on he starts to be sad. Then we move north some more.” He sounded so matter of fact about it that Liam was at a loss.

“He wasn't always that way,” he said eventually. _What did she do to him_ was one of the questions Liam had come to doubt he would ever be able to ask. Who had this woman been who came into his father's life, bore him a son, vanished and left him worn and haunted, aged beyond his years? Killian shrugged and hopped out to tie up the boat. He had no memories of her at all, of course, and none of this was his fault. Liam cleared his throat. “Do you think you might like to see the city, someday?”

“I would! I'm going to go everywhere,” he said. “Just like you. And then to places no one else has ever seen.”

“Well, I haven't been _everywhere_ yet.”

“But you could.” Longing colored his voice as he glanced back out to sea.

“Someday. You, too.”

Later, when an exhausted but smiling boy had been packed off to bed, Liam sat with their father at the little table. Between them sat a candle, a bottle, and a question.

“It's her, isn't it,” Liam said. “You're going looking for her.”

A beat of silence followed. “You angry, son?”

Liam's jaw moved as he thought about it. “No. I don't know. But I don't understand. Why is she so different?”

“I don't know.” He turned his glass in a slow circle and sounded tired. “You think I didn't love your mother? I did. More than breath. She'd been gone so long, though, and.... This was—she—was.... Like no one I've ever known.”

“Maybe if I'd met her, I would understand.” Liam fought down the bitterness in his own voice. The first he'd ever heard of the woman had been when his aunt came with the letter and told him that he had a brother.

“Tha's all right, then. I don't understand myself.” He drank and refilled the cup. “I can't explain her, or what happened, or anything that's happened since. It was like a dream, and I've never quite been awake again. Not since she went away.”

Uneasiness sharpened his tone. “You've been drinking too much.”

“Can't blame you for thinking that. It doesn't make any difference whether I do or no, it's all the same.” He fell silent for a while, then slapped the table as if in sudden decision. “Damn me, who's to say? Maybe you'll meet her someday. Strange world it is. I have to go, whether she's out there or not. Been too long ashore now.” He glanced at the door to the other room and said again, “I have to go. And Killian should leave here, anyway, right? May as well make something of himself. You've done it. Made me proud. Got the sea in him fierce, that one. Needs a bit of balance, though, right? Right.” He nodded, as if he had scored a point against himself.

“Then I'll let Aunt Etty know. I won't be there much,” Liam added by way of warning. “But I'll do what I can.”

“Charming lad he can be, when he's not hell-bent on making trouble. He'll do fine.”

“Probably.” Unwilling to admit that he'd been half-charmed inside of a day himself, Liam hesitated. “I hope you find her.”

“I will.”

“Where will you look?”

“North.”

Liam set off for home the next day, and never saw his father again.

  
  


_(present)_

The _Jolly Roger_ heeled to starboard; her guns spoke in a ragged chorus. The lands of the Enchanted Forest had powder, but their metal-working was not up to producing reliable cannon—it was a hard fight, but a brief one.

“Ordinarily at this point I would ask if any of you were interested in joining me.” Killian surveyed the survivors in the lifeboats with a dubious eye. “However. Having never in all my years at sea seen such a sorry, undisciplined, mange-ridden lot, I'll be sending your ship to the bottom as a gesture of mercy for her. You _may_ avoid the same fate... if you try very hard.”

Stripping the _Prince Henry_ of everything useful took little time for hands used to the work. The ship continued to list and settle. When the work was done, the _Jolly Roger_ 's crew took it in turns to loose flaming arrows at the wreck until it was well ablaze. The two crowded boats were given a single oar apiece and told to sort it out themselves.

“At least a few of them are bound to survive,” Avery said, watching a scuffle break out in one boat as the ship pulled away.

“I expect so.”

“They know who we are.”

“They do.”

The first mate raised an eyebrow, but voiced no direct critique of this policy. Killian was in no mood to explain himself. Local traffic grew heavier, ships too small to make tempting targets. Three days on, they came in view of Thornhaven, the closest to a proper town they had seen on this coast.

“We'll put in here,” Killian decided. “We've got some hard-won goods to shift,” he added, to general laughter. “May as well make some money and then spend it.” The routine work of putting in and making arrangements took up a few hours; with the afternoon getting old, he turned the crew loose and told Milah, “You can head ashore tonight. More than earned it the other day.” They were alone on the deck, the others who had drawn the unlucky shift below for the time being.

Milah shrugged and glanced at the city. “I don't mind a watch here. Gives me time to get used to it. You're not going?”

“Not yet.” He felt unsettled. The docks were loud with ships loading and unloading, making ready to catch the next tide, but sometimes nothing could silence the hiss of the hourglass. “Like a drink?”

“Just one.” Milah accepted the flask with a smile. “I am on watch.” She had braided her hair back to keep the wind from tangling it, and she looked both severe and unguarded as she studied the bustle around them.

Killian had things he ought to be doing. Instead, after a while he said, “I don't think you ever mentioned what sort of people you come from.”

Milah laughed. “Sheep farmers. That's about all anybody does, back home. Not much to say about them.”

“No parents?”

“Gone. That was... gods, six years ago now. A bad winter. Yourself? Or doesn't one ask the captain?”

“One may.” He turned to lean back against the rail, looking away from the harbor toward the lowering sun. “Never knew my mother. My father was a sailor.”

“Was?”

“Lost at sea when I wasn't much older than your lad.”

“I'm sorry.”

Killian shrugged and took a drink. “The Jones family have gone to sea for more generations than anyone can say. It's the nature of the bargain. You get all of this,” he waved at the boundless horizon, at the city and the world beyond it. “But she can take it away whenever she likes.”

Her gaze followed the sweep of his hand. “Sounds fair to me.”

“You're certainly taking to it well.”

“Thank you, captain. No other family, then?”

“A fair few. There's Aunt Henrietta, a matron of such iron respectability that she once told off the wind for tweaking her veil while in mourning for her husband. Legend has it that street has never since felt a breeze.” That got the chuckle he had been hoping for. “She raised four equally respectable children of her own, and my brother, and me. Can't win them all, I suppose.”

“Your brother?”

“Half-brother. No other relations of yours?”

“I had two uncles. They died in the war. Long time ago now.” She glanced to the north. “Everything back there feels like a long time ago.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Do you.”

“When things change so much, it seems a new calendar is in order? Aye.” Silence fell. He didn't mean to do it, but his gaze slipped from the distance to her face, her momentary wistful look subsumed by determination.

“Well, that's a relief,” Milah said. “If this sort of thing happens all the time, I'll get used to it.”

“You shall.” On an impulse, Killian turned to face her and added, “Perhaps you'd care to accompany me on some business tomorrow?”

“Ah—of course. What sort of business?”

“That remains to be seen, but you're a resourceful lass.” He grinned. “We'll see what we can find. If only to stop you following me this time.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Where are we going?” Milah asked.

“Oh, it's going to be painfully exciting.” Killian smiled. “The grain market, first.” He had traded out his usual black garb for buff and burgandy, no less eye-catching but slightly more respectable.

“Thanks for the warning.” Milah's taken-in blue trousers and the blouse she had left home in were shabbier than she liked, but at least they were clean.

The walled town of Thornhaven stretched up a modest rise to a castle at the southeasterly point. The main gates stood on the northern side, where the land was more level. Three broad avenues divided the place. Tree-lined squares and fountains offered relief from what promised to be a warm day. The sign of a flowering bush circled by thorns decorated the inns, the businesses, and the surcoats of the men-at-arms who kept watch over the busy community.

“Looks peaceful here,” Milah said. They headed north, and soon left the docks and the smell of fish behind.

“Aye.”

“Too peaceful?” A guard stared at the two of them but allowed them to pass by.

“Something like that. I believe that's it ahead.” On a prosperous-looking street halfway between the waterfront and the gates, they found a large U-shaped building. The U had been divided into a half dozen spaces. The town's leading merchants held court in private offices, each one behind an outer barrier of frowning clerks and slates on which were scribbled the day's prices.

“I thought you were joking,” Milah said.

“Not at all. You helped earn it; I thought you might like to help dispose of it. See anything surprising?”

“Other than their fashion in hats?” Milah gave him a dubious look but assumed there was a method in this. “Things cost a lot here.”

“Best get used to that.”

“That one's prices are much lower than the others.” She nodded toward the office, which bore a sign of a sheaf of wheat and a string of fish, both circled by the same thorns as the duke's emblem. “Related to the duke?”

“Cleverly reasoned. An arrangement with smugglers would permit him to undercut the competition on a regular basis. A noble connection would take advantage of that. Everyone wins, except for the poor sods trying to follow the rules.”

“You don't strike me as one to be fond of rules.”

“Make no mistake, love, there are always rules. Even to this business. This way.” Killian led the way to a much shabbier stall on the opposite side of the building. A frowning clerk stood up to intercept them. “Morning, mate. Tell your master that it's his lucky day.”

“I beg your pardon?” The clerk's air of frozen affront could have repelled a small army.

“He could be about to make a very good deal. If he's in, of course.”

A few minutes later, away from the prying eyes and ears of the street, a short and very nervous merchant named Ippin said, “Is this—no, no one could set a trap this foolish. Are you mad?”

Killian took the chair opposite him and raised an eyebrow. “Possibly, but not so most people would notice. What makes you say so?”

Milah stood behind him. Her glance slid around the room, looking for items of significance. The office had a worn, make-do look she knew too well. The wall hangings had been visited by moths, and Ippin's chair wobbled as he fidgeted. His clothes looked fine enough to her, but they were drab wool where his competitors lounged in indigo silk, and his lone clerk's robes were threadbare.

Ippin made an attempt to resist the lure. “I appreciate the, uh, offer, Captain. It would be worth my life to touch a grain of that shipment.” He smoothed a hand over his bald spot.

“Would it really.”

“You're obviously new here. If you know what's good for you, you'll make a gift of it to Groff, and beg his pardon when you do.” Ippin's expression twisted to fit his sour words. “You can't miss it. He's right across the way.” Under his breath he added, “Selling at what's practically cost for the rest of us.”

“I think I'll forgo the pleasure for the time being. What's the problem? I gather that he's the duke's cousin or something of that sort.”

“He is. And now, if you'll—”

“How much is your life worth, then?”

“Uh—excuse me?” Ippin leaned back, his eyes wide.

“If it would be worth your life, how much is that worth? I've a few other odds and ends to dispose of. Their former owner certainly won't be putting in any claim.” Killian looked deliberately around the shabby office. “Smugglers, they're so unreliable. Whereas you have a reputation for honesty that should stand you in good stead today. For a change.”

Ippin hesitated. Milah gave him a disdainful look and turned her attention elsewhere while Killian reeled him in. Her conversation with the captain the previous night returned to her; she thought there was something more there than simply passing the time.

She waited until they were outside again before she asked, “What was the point of all that? If we just want to get rid of the stuff, does it matter who buys it?”

“It might.” Killian smiled. “Didn't care for the man, I take it.”

“I've had enough of worms to last me a lifetime.” She allowed a corner of her own mouth to turn up.

“They have their uses. This particular worm will owe us a favor.” His smiled broadened. “We've made some money, or the promise of it at any rate. On to the spending?”

“That sounds more like it.”

The afternoon passed more quickly than she might have liked. She watched Killian, and felt herself watched in turn, and wondered often what he was thinking as he did it. They did not touch, but she felt a sharp awareness of the moments they might have, of the distance between them at any time.

The agreeable task of arranging for fresh provisions behind them, they repaired to a tavern as evening fell upon the town. With sweet local wine on hand to wash away the dust and nowhere pressing to be, the future as open as the nearby window, Milah found herself smiling again as she watched the passersby in the square.

“A pleasant day. Thank you,” she said.

“The pleasure is mine. I do believe happiness suits you.”

Milah took a drink and thought again about the previous night, about the day now coming to an end, about the way he looked at her. “And what would you call happiness, captain?”

“A good ship and a good crew. All else can be acquired at need. Perhaps some company, now and again.”

“Only now and again?” She cocked her head.

He hesitated, but he didn't look away. “My life has been rather the opposite of settled.”

“Better than being chained to a rock.”

“No doubt, but not terribly conducive to... company, over the long term.”

“That's a shame.” She kept her eyes on his, saw the moment of consideration.

“Well, sometimes life surprises you.” He finished his drink and glanced at the crowded room. “Would you care to take this conversation somewhere a bit quieter?”

“All right.” Out in the square, a sea breeze cooled the air. A few people hurried home; a man finished drawing water from the fountain and walked off with a bucket in each hand. They were alone with the fading sunset. Milah leaned back against the fountain's stone edge, the rough surface still warm from the sun. Her heart felt a little quicker than usual.

Killian settled next to her; his shoulder brushed hers. “This is nothing I expected, when you first came on board.”

“Nor did I. I thought perhaps I was imagining things.”

“That I have been most amiably distracted in your company? Not imagined. Ought I to apologize?”

Milah smiled. “You know, I thought at first it was just—just freedom that I was feeling, after all these years,” she said. “And then, that everything was so new – every day, every town, all of these people. But I don't think that's it, not all of it. Not nearly all.” Not the sense of lightness in her heart these past few weeks when she saw him, or the one that had grown in her throughout the day.

“You have thrown your lot in with ours, with no guarantees. I don't know if you ought to become any further entangled in my business than you already are.”

“I appreciate the warning.” She shifted a little nearer “I'm no expert in love, but I'm not some foolish child, either, throwing herself at her rescuer.”

“I know that.” His left hand came to rest over hers. “But this is dangerous work in more ways than you know.”

Milah glanced around and found no one within hearing. “If you mean that you're not actually a pirate, yes, I have an inkling.”

“Depends on the waters—I knew you were clever.” He half-smiled, but it didn't last. “I'm a lot of things, and many of them aren't pleasant.”

“And I'm prepared to judge for myself.” She turned to face him.

One eyebrow twitched. “I hope I can withstand it.” His hand was still on hers; he drew her a half step closer.

The kiss started slowly, a cautious exploration. She had not kissed many people in the course of her life, and never like this. She set herself to learning the shape of his mouth just as she had the ship—though the ship did not explore her in turn, did not encourage and answer her bolder forays, sweeter than the wine. A reckless greed took hold, drowning out the voices of her past and the knowledge that they were in a public square. She broke off to steady herself against him and drew a shaky breath.

“You all right, there?”

“Yes.” She stroked the back of his neck.

“You seem a bit overwhelmed.”

“So do you. It's been a while.” Before he could follow that smirk with any remarks, she kissed him again. The sound of boots on the cobbles of the square took a moment to register. Milah looked toward the source and found a guard running full tilt in the direction of the castle. “What on earth...?”

“Not our problem.” He touched her chin and brought her mouth back to his. Another guard followed the first, however, and then a small crowd of townsfolk talking excitedly among themselves about something that had happened at the docks. “Or perhaps we'd best go see what the matter is. Before we finish our conversation.” He grinned.

She laughed and brushed her hands over her hair, smoothing it where he had tangled. “Are we going to tell the other crew?”

“I don't intend to sneak about on my own ship. I expect they'll notice.”

By the time they reached the harbor, they had gleaned enough of the passing conversation to prepare for the sight. The dying sunset outlined the masts of three ships blocking the harbor entrance. Milah regarded them with dismay.

“Apparently it is our problem,” Killian said. “Bloody local politics.” The passersby had been loud in blaming their neighbors to the south. The town gates had been shut for the night,

“What are we going to do? They're just sitting there.”

“Recall the crew, and get ready for visitors from one direction or another.”

“So much for the quiet here.” Milah looked toward the castle, then back out at sea. She felt nervous, but not so frightened as she would have a few months ago. “And the rest of our evening.”

“Don't write off the time yet. Sieges can leave one dreadfully bored.” He winked and surprised a laugh out of her.

Many of the crew had already heard the news and returned to the ship. The rest straggled in over the next few hours—most of them were already drunk, so the watch they set was noisier than usual. Milah tried to keep her mind on her duties.

Before midnight, a group of the duke's guards arrived. “Captain Jones? The duke requires your attendance.”

“Far be it from me to disappoint His Grace.”

“You want one of us?” Avery looked over the guards with a practiced and contemptuous eye.

“You stay here; the usual orders stand.” He glanced at Milah. “If Ippin shows in the morning and I'm not back, make sure his wagons reach their destination.”

She nodded. “Of course. Be careful.”

He surprised her even more by kissing her hand. “Unlikely. But I appreciate the sentiment.”


	9. Chapter 9

Killian spent the entire walk berating himself, often in his brother's voice. There had been—oh, a girl or two in the distant past, in the _before_ that meant nothing compared to the swiftly shrinking _after,_ and encounters since then, pleasant enough but necessarily brief. There had been nothing like this. He could drift into memory of her hair as it curled around his fingers, her mouth curious against his.

He had no business doing this. He had no business even thinking this.

Despite the late hour, the streets were busy with people sharing rumors. Some of them asked the guards for news as they passed, but got no answer. Torches blazed on the castle walls, and more soldiers scurried about the courtyard, though most of them had nothing to do but look busy.

For all the urgent speed of the journey to the castle, Killian was not surprised to find himself waiting once they arrived. Nobility were much the same in every land. One of the guards stayed nearby to keep an eye on him, but the fellow proved immune to attempts at conversation. He listened to everyone else passing through instead, tucking away items of interest.

He _was_ surprised when they were allowed to approach the inner doors and another guard stopped him.

“Hand over your sword.”

“Alternatively, I could leave.”

The guard had no doubt had this conversation before; he sighed. “No edged weapons are permitted in the room with him. You are a stranger; perhaps you do not know of the duke's curse? I am told that your presence is required.”

“So was I, but what's this about a curse?”

“You _don't_ want to keep him waiting.”

More curious than offended at this point, Killian obliged and was permitted to pass. Some two dozen men and women crowded the chamber beyond, clutching cups in sweating hands and arguing with one another over what to do. Killian picked out a couple of devices he had seen around the town, including that of the duke's cousin the merchant—the town's leading citizens, then, he presumed. Guards lined the walls, but no one was armed but the duke himself, who wore a long knife at his belt. A tall man with a bit of a paunch, Thornhaven had prematurely white hair and florid cheeks under a short beard. The duke appeared fully occupied berating one of his lords.

“You have said quite enough, Silved, and indeed more than most would have dared. Be silent now.”

“I only meant—” A thin wisp of a man overtopped by a wild shock of hair, the duke's councillor raised both hands in protest.

“I heard what you said, and what you meant. Such words in these dangerous times verge on treason. I cannot have any lack of unity among you. Nor is it the first time you have transgressed.”

“I don't—” Sweating more heavily now, Silved looked around and saw himself deserted, his fellows having edged away while the duke spoke.

Thornhaven waved a hand “Hold him.”

“No, please! You mustn't—I didn't—” The fellow's desperate struggles did not avail; two guards seized his arms. The duke pricked his own finger on the tip of his knife and let a single drop fall onto the upturned face. Shouts of protest turned into screams, but those were soon muffled as thorny green vines sprouted where the drops of blood had fallen. The guards stepped smartly away. Inside of a minute, the unfortunate councilor could barely be seen, a thrashing mound of foliage and a growing red stain below it. After a while, the mound stopped moving.

So, the duke bore a curse in his blood. For all of his wanderings, Killian generally kept a healthy distance from magic in person, and this sort of thing was precisely why.

“I suggest the rest of you think well on how we can best come through this cowardly assault with our town and the lives of its citizens intact.” He waved dismissively, and the throng of them moved to the far side of the room. A guard gave Killian a meaningful nod, which he took as his signal to approach. The guard spoke briefly to the duke, who nodded.

“Captain Jones, isn't it?”

“Aye.”

“I hear you sank the _Prince Henry_ last week.” A startled buzz arose from the courtiers.

“Aye. They did attack us.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and smiled.

“I suppose you've heard about our new situation here.”

“I'm a newcomer here, Your Grace, but I believe I've acquired the essentials. Sneak attack by your neighbor the Lord of Riverhome, harbor blockade—I assume they're outside the gates as well? What I've yet to hear is any official word of what they want.”

“My utter destruction. It's not enough to ruin me economically, not enough to strangle us slowly. Now they want us to burn.”

Killian considered the town's obvious prosperity in that light. “It's just that I heard a rumor earlier today. Something about children.” The room went silent. “I've said the wrong thing?”

“Whoever passed that rumor was mistaken,” the duke said in a voice of perfect calm.

“I see. Well, that happens. Regarding your visiting ships, I take it that you think I might be of some service?”

“We are a peaceable town and have little prepared for war. We could use a well-armed ship in our defense.”

“I can't imagine many dare to attack you.” He glanced at the mound of deadly greenery.

The duke's eyes narrowed. “This is true.”

“And I suppose that if we help you, you'll make it worth our while? Three ships is a lot to take on.”

A thin smile came and went. “I'm sure we can come to some satisfactory arrangement.”

A fresh buzz came from the watchers. Killian saw more than one of them wince, and a few looked angry. He marked them for future consideration and settled in for a discussion of what they might expect from these ships, what timeframe the duke thought reasonable, and what terms would be acceptable. No one else seemed inclined to argue with His Grace, given his earlier demonstration.

These negotiations concluded, one of the guards escorted Killian to the castle gate and returned his sword.

He checked it over and said, “Interesting fellow, His Grace. Pays well?”

The guard gave a noncommittal grunt. “Don't think about leaving town now. He's keen on keeping his agreements.”

“Then we shall get along famously.”

Deep in thought, Killian headed back toward the docks. Late night had long since been left behind for early morning. The city slept uneasily, aware of the forces arrayed nearby.

“You should pay better attention to where you're going,” Maelstrom said, falling into step beside him. The demon wore a hooded cloak, hiding its features even from the darkness. “Someone might do you some mischief.”

“What do you want.”

“You have something for me, yes?”

“Your dust? I don't have it on me.”

“Then I'll have to come back. What fun this will be!” It rubbed its hands together.

“You have some new request, then?”

“Not yet, but I'm sure I can think of something.” The demon paused and swung its head around, sniffing audibly. “So much fear. So much potential for suffering.”

Killian gave it a look of disgust.

“Don't tell me you've lost your taste for war already.”

“Battle is different.”

“You have scruples about starving civilians, at this late date? This isn't even your land. How many grain ships did you sink that winter?”

“You know how many. No one's going to starve here. The city is fat, and this business will be sorted long before the harvest starts.”

“You think that, do you.” Maelstrom laughed. “I'll see you tomorrow night, to collect my property.” Between one step and the next, the creature vanished.

Killian repressed a shiver and kept walking, turning over all that he had learned in the course of the night. The flask in his pocket beckoned, offered to settle his thoughts and quiet his memories. He drew it out with a sense of resignation. The duke's promise of payment he reckoned to be worthless, but there might be a way to turn the situation to advantage. He had two days to think of a way to take three heavily armed and wary ships in a small harbor, or end his days in a far more vegetal fashion than he had ever imagined.

He would think of something. He always did.

Milah would be waiting at the ship, a whole other and perhaps more difficult conundrum.

Half the flask was gone and the haze of despair proportionally lightened when a noise in the darkness alerted him—too late to avoid the club's whistling descent, and the explosion of pain that took away all awareness.

  
  


Milah's hand still felt warm as she watched Killian walk off with the guards. She looked at Avery. She had not yet figured out what the first mate thought about her joining the crew, let alone this new development.

“Well, miss.” He sounded resigned. “Best get to work.”

“Are you annoyed?”

“If I let the captain's choices annoy me, this ship would have fallen apart years ago. Best get that cargo sorted out before morning.”

“Aye, sir.” She cast one last glance shoreward and went below to make sure everything was in order.

A humid, windless dawn arrived; gathering clouds suggested rain to come. Ippin appeared with three heavy wagons, a half dozen men, and circles under his eyes that said he hadn't slept well. Milah hadn't either, increasingly worried about where Killian might be.

Ippin handed over the first half of the promised payment to Avery. He didn't dare speak roughly to the crew, but he chivvied his own workers relentlessly and got in everyone's way. They had nearly finished at last when a single word rippled down the waterfront and drew everyone's eyes to the sky: fire.

Ippin glanced in that direction, went bone-white, and sprinted down the waterfront toward the rising black smudge. Milah went after him—most everyone else had a grain sack over one shoulder, and Ippin hadn't finished paying them. She caught up to him leaning on a wall some distance from the growing flames, clutching his chest in relief.

“It's not mine,” he said between gasps before she could speak. “Oh, gods, I thought it was mine, everything I have is in there.”

Milah looked that way. The growing crowd made it difficult to see; she climbed atop a rickety crate. Bucket lines had begun from the harbor, but they were more concerned with making certain the flames didn't spread than with trying to save the warehouse.

“I'll go see what's going on. You,” she prodded Ippin hard in the chest, “get back to the ship and get your goods taken care of, or you can be damn sure I'll find you and take the rest of the payment out of your skin.” She thought it was a good imitation of Emmett; it seemed to work. She set off, elbowing her way through the bystanders until she stumbled into an unexpected clear zone.

She almost didn't recognize Killian. For one, he had his shirt off. For two, he was very, very bruised, and his left arm rested in a sling. An old woman with a pipe clenched between her teeth finished prodding his collarbone on that side and grunted.

“Don't think it's broken. Could be cracked, though. Keep still for a few days, though, if I were you.”

“I'm sure I'll do my best,” Killian said. He looked an absolute mess, disheveled and begrimed, and she thought that was blood matted into his hair. However, he was alive.

“Do you always get in this much trouble?” Milah asked, stepping into the open space.

“Often enough. What are you doing here?”

“There's a building on fire.” She looked down the street. A chunk of the place's roof fell in with a rush of sparks into the windless air; the crowd's chatter rose in alarm, then fell back as the buckets did their laborious work.

“Noticed that, did you.” His coughing fit put paid to any attempt at nonchalance. “I swear, it was like that when I woke up.”

“This belong to you, miss?” The old woman looked at Milah.

“Hardly,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Going by the knot on his head? Better than he's got any right to be.” She snorted and dusted her hands off on her skirt. “I'll send the boy around to your ship to collect my fee.”

“Done,” Killian promised. “You have my gratitude, as well.”

A new group of arrivals forced their way through the crowd, a richly dressed man and an entourage of servants. Milah recognized their device from the previous morning; the duke's cousin. He looked at the blaze with a grim eye, then marched toward them.

“Lucky the whole damn town didn't go up. What's this then?” he gave Killian a cold look. “Lucky business finding the perpetrator at the scene, what?”

“Don't be more of a fool than you must, Groff,” the doctor said, shifting the pipe in her teeth. “Fellow's lucky to—”

“Lucky the falling beam wasn't any heavier,” Killian interrupted her. “Unforgivably drunk though I may have been, I carried neither lantern nor candle. I may not remember my arrival, but I am certain that it was not I who set your most noble lordship's wares alight.”

Milah's neck tightened with the effort not to turn and stare at him. Most noble lordship, _really?_

Groff glared for a few moments, then appeared to accept this. “Don't suppose you saw who did, then?”

“Between the rum and the smoke, I'm afraid I saw nothing but a few fleeing rats, who were kind enough to lead me to an exit.”

“The fellow escaped, then. Pity.”

“Indeed, my lord. There's nothing more despicable than an arsonist.”

“Agreed.” Groff snorted and stomped off, shouting at the bucket wielders. The doctor gave Killian a long look, shook her head, and followed.

“Give me a hand here, would you love?” Killian said, picking up his shirt.

“What the hell happened?” Milah asked as she helped him with it. The immediate knot of curious onlookers began to break up.

“Lovely meeting with His Grace, I'll tell you all about that later, and on my way back down here, someone hit me over the head and dumped me in a warehouse, which it would appear they saw fit to set on fire.” He scowled at the scorch marks on his coat.

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“Aye.”

She looked around to find no one obviously watching. “Ippin was at the ship all morning. Though perhaps not all of his workers.... He seemed surprised by the fire, though. Why not tell Groff the truth about what happened?”

“Ippin does appear a suspect, but that may be the intended effect. I did in fact get a look about that warehouse that just went up in flames. It was nearly empty.”

“So Groff did it himself, then? Why involve you?” Milah stared at him.

“Or possibly someone cleaned it out for him and wished to cover their tracks. As for my own involvement, there is more going on here than war among merchants. The duke has tasked me with liberating his harbor from its attackers.”

“Do you think we can?”

Killian waved a hand. “A way can be found, no doubt. If we wish to do it.”

“Why wouldn't we? We do want to leave. The sooner the better, it would seem.” She looked around with new wariness.

“Aye, and his threats should we fail to do so were not subtle. Whilst kicking my heels outside his audience chamber last night, I heard a few things of interest, among them perhaps the reason for this assault on the town.” Killian rubbed the back of his head with a wince. “His Grace the Duke had a young wife. Five years ago she was brought to bed of twins, and alas, all three died of a fever in the week that followed. The Lord of Riverhome, whose ships are currently preventing us from going about our lawful occasions and any others, says that those children were of his begetting, and that they yet live, as prisoners of the duke.”

“Oh.” Milah looked up at the castle.


	10. Chapter 10

“Why don't you tell me everything that happened last night,” Milah said. “I suspect it will be easier that way.” When he hesitated, she said, “Or I could go back to the ship and leave you to go about your business.”

Killian winced. “Forgive me? I'm not used to this.”

“Neither am I.”

“Point taken. Perhaps we could walk a bit. Some air might be restorative.”

“All right.” They did that. Milah listened to the full tale of the evening, including the duke's curse, with gathering astonishment. “Do you believe this rumor?”

“I don't disbelieve it. I should like something more certain on which to act, however.”

“And if it is true?”

Killian hesitated. “I'm not supposed to get involved in this sort of thing, you understand.”

“Well.”

“Quite. Either way, it appears we are well ensnared.”

“Even very small prisoners must be cared for and fed,” Milah said. “Someone must know, if there are these rumors. Do you suppose he would keep them at the castle?”

“I don't know if he has a country house that would suffice. Something to look into.” He rubbed his head again.

“You should probably be resting.”

“I've had worse. And we've only got two days to either settle this or come up with a reasonable delay.”

They reached the town gates—shut, of course, and heavily guarded. A thorn bush had taken root in the space just behind the gates, as tall as the walls themselves, its branches so thickly intergrown that a cat would not pass unscathed.

“It looks like he's more interested in keeping his people in than attackers out,” Milah said. “This is as bad as the Frontlands. Is there a one of them that's worth the shirt he wears?”

“Precious few, I'm afraid.” Killian looked at the bush and the walls. “The day will be half gone by the time we get back to the ship. I have a notion for someone we could contact here, who might more readily speak to you than to me. That is, if you are minded to become further entangled in this thicket?”

Milah frowned. “Even if I didn't—didn't care at all, of course I'll help. This is abominable.”

“Thank you. I may have an additional resource we can call on, as well.”

“Oh?” She looked at him, alarmed by his grim tone.

“I can make no promises.”

“You're not going to go wandering about alone again, are you?”

“For a change, no. I think I shall remain visible for the remainder of the day, and see what eventuates from our merchant friends among others. If any of them have concerns about the events of the early morning, they may make some attempt to either probe or threaten.”

“And this is your normal life, is it.”

“Afraid so.” He looked away.

“Better than sheep.” She touched his arm. “Trust me, would you?”

His smile came and went. “I shall.”

They returned to the ship. Later that day, when the doctor's boy came as promised to fetch his mistress' payment, Milah went with him. He installed her in the parlor and asked her to wait. The smell of pipe smoke preceded the doctor herself.

“Fancy seeing you again. Afternoon, miss.”

Milah smiled. “Hello. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Not at all. Woman trouble or man trouble?”

“Uh—neither, actually. I wanted to ask you about the town.”

“Oh?” The doctor settled in a chair and gestured for Milah to take the other.

“Our village herbalist was always the one with the best news. We may be stuck here for a while and, well, I was hoping you could help with the lay of the land. His Grace seems to be on the prickly side.” Milah drew a bottle of rum out from her bag and set it on the table.

“That a joke? Name's Hetty.” She drew out the cork and gave an appreciative sniff. “That lad of yours is bad news, you know.”

“He's not mine.”

Hetty snorted. “Your face this morning says you're a liar, but since you bring such a gift, I'll overlook it. I can spare an hour.”

By the time Milah left the little house, a steady rain had begun. She passed the ruined remains of Groff's warehouse and found her fellow crew in a damp and dour mood. Just outside the harbor, shrouded by mist, the three enemy ships waited. She could hear Killian pacing when she knocked.

“Come in.”

Milah closed the door behind her and glanced up at the hatch. The noise of the rain on the deck above and the sense that they ought to speak quietly moved her closer to Killian, on the far side of the table.

“You still smell like smoke,” she said. “How's your arm?”

“It lingers. And I'm fine, alarmist physicians to the contrary.” He kissed her, quick and soft, then drew her close enough to murmur in her ear. “Glad to see you safely returned. We have endured several full hours of peace and quiet in the meantime. What's the news?”

“Hetty wanted to make it clear that she didn't have any personal knowledge of any of this. She steers clear of the duke. But apparently his personal physician vanished soon after the tragedy—most people figure the duke had him killed for letting it happen. And the south tower of the castle was closed up, too.”

“Bloody hell. I had hoped it was a mere rumor.” Killian sighed against her neck.

“It still could be.” This position had the potential to become distracting.

“You believe it.”

“I don't know what to think. I never thought—about things like this.”

“Aye, well.”

After a brief silence she said, “I might be able to get into the castle. No one looks twice at servants, aside from other servants, and I suppose I might... bribe one of them?”

“Well, for someone who's never thought about this, you're certainly full of useful suggestions.”

“Must have been all those stories.” She smiled.

“We need to get in touch with our besiegers. See what exactly might await us were we to declare for them. For all we know, the Lord of Riverhome is just as cursed, or just as unpleasant.”

“How are we supposed to do that, without the duke suspecting? The gates are sealed.”

“There's always a way. It will have to be after dark. The weather should act in our favor there. Risk of being shot on sight, of course.”

Milah winced and looked over his shoulder at the rain-streaked windows. “That's a long time to wait. Is there nothing we can do?”

“Would you like me to answer that as a gentleman, or otherwise?”

“Are you serious?” She smiled. “You're injured.”

“A minor challenge, I assure you. And I'm far more serious than people give me credit for.”

“I can see that.” Milah hesitated. “It's not that I object.” Far from it; being so close kindled a very pleasant sort of apprehension. “Just a bit... I never thought this was going to be part of my life when I left home.” She moved her hand to cup the back of his neck. “Just need to go a bit slow.”

“Gentleman it is, then, and don't give it a moment's thought.” Killian started to draw away, but she stopped him.

“Perhaps it would be worth finding out whether there's somewhere in between?” She kissed him, breathed a heady mixture of smoke, leather, and rum. She tried to be careful, but he clearly didn't care.

“A sensible compromise, then.” He kissed a path over her cheek to her ear. “Just tell me what it is you wish, and I will do anything in my power.”

“I remember... too many cold nights, in recent years. I would just as soon forget them.” She felt his chuckle as a puff of breath against her neck.

“I can make you very few promises without risking being made a liar, but this one I can without fear; you needn't be cold.”

  
  


*

 

“And why the hell should I believe a single word you say?” An hour after midnight, the Lord of Riverhome looked put out. Brown of skin and black of hair, considerably younger than the duke his rival, he hadn't bothered to fasten the robe he wore over his chain shirt. “Pirate.”

“Given that I've already stuck my neck out for you, you might consider a more grateful tone.” Killian shook wet hair out his eyes. At least the tent was a dry one, if a bit crowded with guards at the moment. He could be far worse than damp, exhausted, and bruised. “This approach of yours is liable to get a good many people killed, including the ones you claim to care so much about. How do you even know they're alive?”

Riverhome's already-narrow gaze hardened further. “I have received information from someone within the castle, regarding the duke's curse for his crimes.”

“His crimes?”

“For having killed her. If any harm comes to those children, the thorns in his blood will turn upon him.”

“I see. Could this contact of yours help us get in?”

“To do what?”

“Rescue them, what else?”

“Why would someone like you take that sort of a risk.”

“Possibly because I've taken leave of my senses. You're welcome to undertake the effort yourself. My chief interest is in getting my ship free of this nest of madmen. Now—your contact?”

Riverhome sat back in his chair. “Their prison is well-secured. The last time anyone went in was two years ago. Our correspondence has been carried by birds.” He gave Killian a long, careful look. “I know the south tower, at least as it once was.”

“Well a map would be bloody useful, then.”

After another long moment, the other man nodded and glanced at a guard. “Fetch my secretary.”

“It's not the worst plan I've ever seen,” Killian judged an hour later. Too complicated, and they had too little time in which to work. The duke's bloody curse was the problem; without it he might arrange to put a knife in the man and have done. “I have to ask – what's your story, mate? This is quite the grand effort you're making.”

Riverhome shrugged. “I was but a poor knight-errant, and she was destined for far better. That didn't stop us from falling in love, and neither did her marriage. He suspected. Three years ago I did the king a service, and he rewarded me with this title, not knowing my history in the area of course. It came with a town and harbor that had run into neglect. Thornhaven and his smuggler friends have been undermining me the whole time.”

“Yet you managed to raise an army.”

“And I'm going into considerable debt for it, too. But I wouldn't leave a dog in that man's care if I could prevent it, much less a child, even if they weren't my own. The life they must have had.”

“It ends tomorrow.”

The return journey to the ship was just as exhausting, and it lacked only an hour until dawn when he completed the summoning ritual.

Killian handed over the fairy dust and said, “I need something.”

“Mortals always do.”

“You've never said what it is you do with the oddments I collect for you, but I imagine you have quite a storehouse of them somewhere. I need something that will allow someone to pass unseen. Ideally, three people.”

“Hm.” Maelstrom considered. “I may have access to such an item.”

“What would you take for it?”

“Six months.”

“Pardon?”

“Off what you've got left. We pull in the deadline by six months.”

He couldn't breathe; what a curious sensation. “Do demons get impatient then? Surely it makes no difference to you.”

“Whatever it is you're up to, it's likely to cost me some entertainment. I'll just have to find it somewhere else.”

“And that's all you lot value, I take it. Two months.” What difference did it make to him, really, from a life already forfeit? It might make quite a bit for the people of this town.

“Four.”

“Done.”

“A pleasure.” A ring appeared, dangling from one needle-like claw. Of carved black stone, the flat top bore an hourglass design in white. “Three people invisible to sight, as long as they're in physical contact with the wearer. It works for one hour. The white will turn to black.”

“It will do.”

“What are you about, then?”

“Wait and see. By this time tomorrow, the length of our contract may be without relevance.”


	11. Chapter 11

“So far so good,” Milah murmured. “There's the tower.” All around them, the castle crackled with tension. Riverhome had sent his army against the gates at noon as planned, both as a diversion and a signal that he had contacted the children's guardian, and warned them to expect a rescue. Now the duke's soldiers mustered to defend the city walls. Men shouted and metal clattered, much closer than Milah would have liked, but she and Killian had reached their destination.

Whether they could get inside was another matter. Thorn bushes grew thick in the yard, barring the doors more thoroughly than any locks. Killian drew his sword and tried a few cuts. The dense, heavy stems gave way and sprang back, scarcely damaged.

He shook his head. “We haven't time for this. It will have to be the hard way after all. Back inside.”

They retraced their steps into the castle proper and through a maze of little-used halls, following the map Riverhome had sketched. Milah peered around the corner.

“There's another hall not far down from us. Two guards.”

“The one we want, then. The hall used to lead to the tower. There's a room at the end that shares a chimney with it. That's how they send up food and so on.”

“How are we going to deal with those two?” All of those stories she had devoured in all of those quiet years, and none of them had mentioned that one's voice tended to shake at crucial moments.

“The direct way. Wait here.”

“Want a hand?”

“Invisible,” he reminded her. “Not to worry.” Killian hadn't said where he got the ring from, had just looked tired and grim and started telling her about the plan. He vanished from sight. Milah heard a faint scuffling noise, then, “Clear.”

They dragged the two bodies into the room and hid them behind some sagging drapes. The furnishings and floor lay heavy with dust except for a trail to and from the fireplace. Twice a week, between guard shifts, a trusted servant would come and deliver the prisoners' fare. If rumor told of pale faces peering down from the broken windows, of voices in the walls, no one could blame the castle dwellers for thinking the place must be haunted.

“Keep watch at the door,” Killian murmured. “Rope?”

She passed him the coil and returned to the door, her hand on her knife and her heart pounding. Killian felt around in the chimney and found the string the late guards had used to signal to the prisoners in the tower. The twine wouldn't hold a person, but it could draw up an end of the rope.

Minutes passed while the rope was drawn up and secured somewhere within the prison, and more before the first small figure reached the bottom. The second soon followed. They were slender creatures, dressed in plain but clean clothing, or had been before the trip down the chimney. They both had their presumed father's looks and wide dark eyes, and they held one another's hand as they looked at a room they had never seen before and two strangers.

Killian got down on one knee, so as not to tower over them. “Nia and Owen, isn't it? You're going to come with us. We'll take you out of the city, to where you'll be safe. We must be very, very quiet. Can you do that?” The children nodded.

Milah wanted to say _this is madness_ , but there was no sense in frightening them more than they already were. Instead she looked at the chimney and asked, “What about our friend upstairs?”

“The shaft is too narrow. They have the rope, and will have to make their own way out. We should move quickly.” Killian handed her the ring. “Remember—”

“I know.” He had every excuse to be in the castle; Milah did not. She held out her hands to the children. “You two. Hold onto me, and don't let go, no matter what you see. As long as you do that, no one will see us.” More nods. They moved to the end of the corridor. All went well for the first few minutes. They saw no one, so she saved the ring until it might be needed.

That was sooner than she wanted. Distant shouting resolved into a voice that could only belong to one man.

“—Time to strike!” the duke said. “While he is occupied with my gate, let us break his attempt to bottle my harbor. Where are my captains? We attack at once! Gather the....” His voice faded off again into the distance.

Milah looked at Killian. “If he's looking for you, how shall we get out of here?” Half the castle still lay between them and the gate. They had counted on the duke being occupied to cause delay and confusion.

“I'll handle him.” He kissed her, quick and light. “Get these two to the ship. I'll see you there.”

“Be careful.” She watched him go, then looked at the children. “We may have to run.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Nia whispered. Owen nodded.

She took a deep breath and put on the ring.

  
  


Killian pulled out his flask and dumped a bit of the contents on his shirt, in case anyone should ask why he had been lurking about the unused halls. Then he sauntered off to find the duke. His Grace of Thornhaven occupied a moving circle of guards and servants. Some of them provided updates on the attack at the gate; others scurried away with new orders. The rules about weapons near his person appeared to have been relaxed.

“...Within the hour we can catch him off guard and—ah, Captain Jones, finally turned up, have you.”

“Your Grace. Victory achieved already? Well done, let's have the celebration.”

“Soon.” Thornhaven's eyes narrowed; he sniffed the air. “I shall let him think I'm fully engaged with his pathetic attack, and destroy the true heart of his forces.”

“We discussed this at some length, Your Grace. I thought we had agreed that a dusk attack—”

“The wind is fair; the time is now. One has to be flexible in wartime, captain. I should think you would know that.”

“You are a perceptive leader, no doubt.” If he had a penny for every time a superior officer had made that kind of remark, he could have bought another ship. “But rushing in when we're not—”

“I _did_ give an order.”

“You did, Your Grace,” Goff spoke up unexpectedly. “But may I suggest that the fellow has a point? You did wisely choose to employ a professional in this matter, and to change a plan so well-considered on the spur of the moment—”

“No,” the duke replied. “We put out within the hour. And you'd best be sober by then, captain.”

“We?” Killian raised an eyebrow.

“Your ship and two of mine. And you'll be with me, to ensure good behavior on the part of your men. I don't trust pirates.” The duke turned away to give other orders as two guards stepped up smartly to bracket Killian.

So much for that plan. He had one card up his sleeve yet, or more precisely in his ring, but this was not a good place to play it. He manufactured a smile and said, “Lead on, then.”

  
  


“Damn it! What are they doing over there.” Milah bit her lip and glanced back down the alley to where the children huddled. Their invisibility period was already running low. Soldiers thronged the streets, trying to impose order as people rushed to gather their families or provisions, or looked for news about the attack on the gate. She could not move as fast as she wanted, not least because her charges refused to look upward. She had not thought of what the sky must look like to them, the world beyond the walls that were all they had ever seen.

All it would take was one soldier who recognized her for a stranger, who had heard the rumor about the duke's past.

“We'll have to backtrack and try to get ahead of them. It's not much farther.” A half mile at most lay between them and the ship. The ring gave out before they had covered half the distance, the hourglass figure on its face completely black. Milah looked out and saw no soldiers in the street.

“People can see us now,” she warned the twins. “Stay close.” They did that, darting nervous glances at the crowd but mostly watching her or the ground as they walked. Milah wanted very much to run, felt as if invisible weapons must be trained on them.

“Hey, sailor.”

It took a moment for Milah to realize that she was being so addressed. She walked faster.

“Yeah, you. I need to talk to you.”

“Not now.”

“You look like you've got troubles.” The man who had spoken fell into step beside her. His face was more boyish than manly, and bore a port-wine stain shaped a boot on one cheek.

“I've seen you before. On the _Prince Henry_.” She pushed the twins behind her and went for her knife, but the man stepped back, empty hands on display.

“Easy. I'm here to help, dammit!”

“And why would you do that?”

A grin passed over the youthful features. “I seem to be out of a ship, and you lot are plainly better at the job than that useless rat's-ass was. Name's Theo.”

“Well, Theo, now is not the time.”

“What if I knew who tried to kill your captain the other day?”

“I might think you were making that up, or that you were in on it.”

“I'm not daft. This is something you can check on, all right?” He grimaced and glanced around. “I suppose this does sound fishy to you, but listen. I just want to get out of this town before the whole damn place goes up. Not interested in fighting for this lord or any other. Goff and his friends aren't going to look kindly on me for being part of the crew that botched up his nice setup here. Even less if they find out out I'm talking to you.”

Theo had not given the children more than a curious, cursory glance. Milah tightened her grip on Nia's hand and made her decision.

“We're near the market,” she said. “If you mean what you say, you'll find Ippin, the grain merchant. Have him ready a wagon and bring it to the next square. If you do turn out to have useful information, I can promise you transport out of here. Beyond that, I can't say.”

Theo pulled a face. “Ippin? The man's useless as—”

“He owes us. Do it!”

“Aye, ma'am.” He gave her a jaunty wave and vanished into the crowd.

He might return with the guards. Milah started mapping alternate routes from the square—perhaps they could get to the rooftops—in case he did.

“I want to go back,” Owen whispered.

“We can't.”

  
  


As assassination attempts went, it wasn't the worst Killian had seen at close range. At first he thought they were after the duke, and was about to let them proceed with this suicidal plan. He realized their true target for himself barely in time to hit the ground – inelegant but effective in that he regained his feet and got his back to the nearest wall before their swords could descend.

The attack relied on surprise, and once that advantage was lost, so were they. Two of the duke's guards ran off; the third was consumed by thorns as the duke took a personal hand in the affair.

“Treachery!” Goff shouted. “After them!” He took off in pursuit of the fleeing pair.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Thornhaven glared at Killian and then at his remaining half dozen guards, all of whom looked bewildered.

“I'll be surprised if those two survive to tell you.” A red-hot bar of pain had bloomed in Killian's shoulder when he hit the ground. It didn't go away. Much as he would have preferred to forget the building falling in on him the other day, he was in no condition for a real fight. He set his jaw and dusted himself off regardless. “Any chance your cousin doesn't wish to see this endeavor succeed?”

“Ridiculous notion.” The duke scowled. “Quickly now. I won't countenance any further delays.” He waved his bleeding hand in case his point was missed. Killian jerked back from the cursed appendage and decided to wait for a less delicate moment to leave the duke's company. Six drawn swords.

They moved with all haste to the harbor. Goff did not reappear. More of the duke's soldiers had assembled aboard two of the largest ships. Killian took two steps toward the _Jolly Roger_ 's berth and pulled up short as a drawn sword barred the way.

“You're coming with me,” the duke said. “Like I said.”

“And how exactly do you expect me to direct _my_ ship in battle from aboard yours?”

“If your men can't follow orders, they're no use to me any way. Yours can lead the way, and my two will follow on. Those fellows out there are just like the ones at the gate. They're no soldiers. They won't stand long against a determined attack.”

“Delightful plan. If I may speak to my first mate, then?”

“I'll have him sent for.”

“Very well, then.” Suspicious bastard.

“We're still missing some supplies, captain,” Avery said significantly on arrival. Being a good first mate, he did not add, _I told you this was a bad idea_.

Killian's heart sank, but he did not look toward the castle. “We'll have to pick them up later, then. As we discussed, Mr. Avery.”

“Captain?” The mate cast a dubious eye at the soldiers surrounding them.

“Have some faith, mate.” Killian slapped him on the shoulder. “And step lively, we've been too long about this already.”

“Aye, sir.”

  
  


Ippin's wagon rattled down the street, with the merchant himself at the reins and a grinning Theo beside him. Milah allowed herself a full breath for the first time in a long while.

“Come,” she told the children. “Quickly now.”

“Where are we going now?” Nia asked, wide-eyed. “I didn't know horses were so big!”

“In the wagon. Then to the harbor and our ship. You'll be safe then.” She lifted the children up to the back of the wagon and scrambled up behind them. “Took long enough,” she muttered to Theo.

“This one needed some convincing.”

“You're going to get me killed, and everyone who even knows me.” Ippin pawed at his bald spot. “The duke—”

“Will never find out about this. Drive,” Milah told him, and settled out of sight behind the boards.

They were challenged once. Ippin told the guard he wanted to move his goods from the warehouse near the harbor to a safer place, tendered a small bribe, and was told to hurry about his business and get off the street.

They reached the waterfront in time to see the last of the three ships pulling away from the dock.

“Bloody buggering son of a—” They disembarked regardless. The wagon jerked away as Ippin whipped up his team, anxious to be safe within his own walls again. Milah looked up and down the docks and saw them all but deserted, the fishing boats idle thanks to the blockade. She found her answer there. “We have to get to the ship.”

Theo glanced from Milah to her frightened charges; his eyebrows went up; he scratched his cheek. “Hostages, are they? Worth something?”

“More like salvage. Pick a boat,” she told Theo. “And we'll see what manner of sailor you are.”

  
  


A life measured in regular intervals, by the tides and the clang of the watch bells, had given Killian an excellent time sense. The allotted invisible hour had long passed when the three ships put out, arrayed for battle. Thornhaven had been right about the wind, if nothing else. Killian bent his gaze shoreward. From the far side of the town, dense black smoke smudged the breeze. The gates were still under attack. He could see no hint of what might have befallen Milah and the children.

Her decks crowded with soldiers, their ship followed close on the _Jolly Roger_. The third lagged some way behind.

“Keep an eye on him,” the duke instructed his guards. He stomped forward to arrange the rest of the soldiers to his liking, shouting at the sailors who inevitably got in his way.

“I thought he would never leave. So much for local politics,” Killian said to the nearest guard, and flicked a pinch of fairy dust into his face. He had kept only a little back, enough to fill the compartment of his ring, but local lore proved accurate; the guards dropped like stones. By the time the duke realized what was happening, Killian had picked up a crossbow. “I admit, not trusting pirates is generally good advice,” he said. “I don't suggest trying to use them, either. Now, I _can_ hit your head from here, but I'd prefer not to. Do you know how to swim, Your Grace?”

“I do.”

“Splendid. Off with the armor, then, and be glad it's summer. The rest of you soldiers, facedown on the deck. Captain, take us about.”

“Sir?” The captain looked at Thornhaven, who snarled but nodded.

“Do it. But know this, however much Riverhome promised you, he won't pay. The man's a thief. And even if he did, you won't live to spend it.” Red-faced with fury, the duke began to strip off his vambraces. The ship slowed and began a ponderous turn into the wind. “Word will get about. You're a dead man.”

“Far from the first time I've heard that. Hurry up now, or I really shall have to shoot you.” This would have to be quick, before the duke's other ship realized that something was amiss, and preferably before Avery turned the _Jolly Roger_ around and sank this one. Stripped of his armor but not his attitude, muttering curses beneath his breath, the duke climbed the rail and prepared to jump. “I appreciate you making this easier for everyone,” Killian said, and shot him From six feet away, the bolt went right through His Grace the Duke of Thornhaven's undefended body. The expression on his florid face passed from choleric to perplexed before he fell. The water frothed red and green as thorns spread through it, then black as the plants died with their source.

  
  


Under Milah's determined direction, the little fishing boat rendezvoused with the _Jolly Roger_ off the point outside of the city, near Riverhome's camp. Two exhausted and terrified children having been united there at last with their father—who looked more than a little nervous himself, and a bit the worse for the noontide battle, but welcomed them—before the ship turned her prow south, free of tangling thorns.

“Theo, is it. And what tale have you to tell me?” Killian lounged at the table in his quarters, with Milah an uncertain observer behind him.

“I know who was behind that business at the warehouse.”

“So do I. Best hope we agree.”

“I saw Goff and some of his fellows get together. Figured I'd better listen in, what? Could be some business I could use. Turned out to be his usual foolery. Wanted to come out of this business with even more gold in his chests. A few weeks of siege, people sell their mother for a loaf of bread.”

“They do.”

“One of 'em headed down to the docks after. I was bound that way myself, followed along, saw 'im come on board here. Wouldn't have thought anything more of it except it was pretty obvious after—begging your pardon—that you weren't in on the scheme yourself, 'less you like being half dead. But somebody in your crew was.”

Milah could not keep her eyes from widening, but she kept her silence.

“Interesting,” was all Killian said. “And you're looking for a berth. Why?”

“Gotta sail, sir.”

“Why _this_ ship?”

“If you must know, on account of her.” Theo nodded at Milah.

“Me?”

“You not in disguise at all. Theo being short for Theodora.”

Killian didn't even blink. “Well, Theo, you've done us a service. You'll get a chance, as promised. Talk to Emmett, he'll get you settled.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I hope I haven't overstepped,” Milah said once the door had closed. “Theo was very helpful.”

“You haven't. We'll see if her story bears out.”

“Aren't you just a bit concerned? If one of the crew was involved in the fire?”

“Only a bit. She may have been mistaken, or be trying to cause trouble now. We'll see which soon enough. We did it.” He tipped his head back and grinned up at her, but it didn't stay long. “And you're unhappy.”

“No. I'm... I'm all right. It was a long day, is all.” Milah put a hand on his shoulder, uncertain which of them she meant to reassure by it. Killian covered it with his own.

“What's wrong?” When she didn't answer, he looked thoughtful for a moment, then hazarded, “Do you want to go back?”

She blinked hard. “Don't ask that. Maybe I ought to, or ought to want to, but I don't. I can't. I was doing all right, not to think about him. Until this morning.” The twins' trusting hands in hers had shattered her pretense of detachment. Perhaps she had been foolish enough to think she go without mourning. “It was bad enough before, when all I had was dreams, but I can never go back now. He'll grow up hating me for it, but I can't.”

“He may not.” Killian's hand tightened on hers.

Her throat hurt. She bent down and kissed him until it stopped. “I suppose I won't know either way. So it doesn't matter.”

He was about to say that it did, or it might, so she kissed him again to quiet him and her own thoughts, to put the past away. She had a future now, however unexpected and strange, as if she had stumbled on a flowering valley in a desert of thorns.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Killian starts a new life with his hitherto distant relations. In the present, Killian and Milah embark on a new adventure, and their relationship hits an immediate rock.

_(14 years ago)_

Killian arrived at Aunt Henrietta's house in the city on a fine day in early autumn. After a stiff interview with the lady herself in the drawing room, Liam gave him a tour of the house—dining room, library, Aunt Henrietta's chambers (never to be entered or even knocked at), the shuttered room that had once been her husband's, guest rooms....

“And this is where you'll be staying.”

“Here?” Killian looked around with flexed brows.

“I know it's a bit of a clutter, but we'll soon have it sorted,” Liam said. The old nursery had been home to their four cousins, now grown. One of the servants had unearthed a chest of linens and another of old clothes that might be useful, and dusted off one of the beds. Mysterious trunks and stacked furniture filled the farther reaches.

“Okay.” He set down his bag and went to the only accessible window. It looked down over the kitchen garden and a narrow lawn flanked by rows of trees, where Henrietta liked to entertain in the warmer months. The leaves had begun to fall, pale seafoam flecking the green.

Liam watched him, feeling uncertain. There had been an enthusiastic hug upon their reunion, and a flood of chatter and questions on the journey up from the docks – about the ship, about the journey, about the city. As the streets grew wider, the houses larger, the walls around them higher, Killian had quieted, and he had barely said a word since stepping through the front door.

“Bit of a change, I know. The place was noisier when I first got here,” Liam said after a while. “Two of our cousins were still up here with me. At least you're unlikely to find a toad in your bed of a morning. What do you say we get to work?”

“Aye aye, sir.” A smile lightened his brother's face, and the remainder of the day passed with reassuring cheer.

In the morning, however, Killian was gone. They turned the house upside down—it was a large one, with plenty of places in which someone his size could hide—to no avail, and sent servants to canvass the nearby streets. The object of their hunt returned while the search was still ongoing, unconcerned by all the fuss, and was ushered straight into the parlor.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“I went for a walk,” he told Henrietta.

“A walk.” She pronounced the word with icy precision.

“Aye.” Killian cocked a puzzled eyebrow. Behind their aunt, Liam managed not to smile.

“It's 'yes, ma'am.' You only arrived yesterday. You might have gotten lost, run over by a cart, run afoul of any manner of ruffian—”

“I don't get lost. Ma'am.”

“That may have been the case in whatever derelict fishing village your father's calling home this week. It is not the case here. I can see we have a great deal of work to do.” She pressed her lips together as if to restrain any further commentary on her brother's ways. “Since it appears that I must make this explicit, you are not to leave this house unaccompanied. Breakfast was at nine. You may go down to the kitchen and help Ellen, for having inconvenienced the household so.”

He went without complaining, but the same thing happened the next day. On the third morning, having talked at some length with their aunt the previous night, Liam waited up. He felt more than a bit of a fool, lurking outside his own house, but his wait was rewarded. An hour before sunrise would properly break, he heard the faint scrape of a window.

He followed Killian down through the city, keeping back to avoid being noticed. The streets grew busy with tradesfolk and grocers' carts; the sky brightened. Liam was certain where they were going to end up. The wharves bustled as workers prepared for the return of early fishing boats. He lost sight of Killian a few times. They wound up on the fire-blackened ruin of an old pier, twenty feet of timber jutting out over the stinking water of the inner harbor.

Liam knew that Killian had noticed him by then, but since Killian didn't acknowledge him, he didn't say anything, only leaned on what was left of a piling and kept quiet. The sun edged over the horizon.

“I didn't think he would really go without me.”

“He's beginning a dangerous journey,” Liam said. “With no notion where the end might lie.”

“So what? I would have gone. If he's looking for my mother, shouldn't I go, too?”

“Perhaps one day you shall. But today is not that day. You have a lot to learn yet.” Liam ventured to the pier's end and sat down next to him.

“Well, how am I supposed to learn it here?”

“One day, one lesson at a time.”

“From _books?_ Really? Or that stuffed monkey's ar—”

“Killian.” Yesterday's meeting with the new tutor had appeared to go well on the surface, but perhaps Liam had mistaken the depth of his stubbornness.

“He looks like the back of a hat-maker's mannequin.”

“And I'm sure he knows a lot that will surprise you. I'm shipping out in a few days. I'd as soon not be worried about what's going on here for six months, all right?”

“Can't I go with you, then? I can be useful, I promise. Are you going to a battle?”

“Doesn't seem likely, and even if it was, I could hardly say, could I? You might be a spy.” When Killian had stopped sputtering, Liam went on. “Brother. Listen to me? Love for the sea can make a sailor, but the Navy asks for a bit more than that. Passion, yes, but also good form.”

“What's that mean?”

“Doing things the way they ought to be done. Doing the very best you can. Even if no one is watching.”

Killian screwed up his face in a skeptical frown. “What for?”

“You'll see. If this is truly what you want for your future, give it a try. Do I have your word?”

“Aye, brother.”

* * *  


(present)

Killian had a bruise on the back of his head from a collision with one of the gilded deck supports. He barely noticed.

“Does this have a story behind it?” He traced the scar on Milah's calf.

“I cut it on a nail while I was penning sheep. Is this really the time?” She moved against him, impatient, but he held back.

“We'll have to come up with a better one than that.”

“Later.” She laced her hands behind his neck and tugged his mouth toward to hers.

“You're laughing.”

“I'm enjoying myself.” She tasted his lower lip. “Is there a problem, captain?”

“None whatsoever. I like your laugh.” Killian shifted forward at last, lost himself in her, breath and bodies hurried on by the ceaseless rhythm of the sea itself. The waves overtook them soon enough, and they lay tangled and drowsy in the narrow berth. He stroked her hair, felt her smile with her cheek pressed against his chest.

After a while Milah touched his mouth and asked, “Is something wrong? You're quiet.”

“Unusual, is that it? Fret not; you are magnificent.” He kissed her fingers. “I only wish we were farther out from port.”

“Why's that? I know you're anxious to unload some of this.” She wore several heavy gold necklaces still, and rolled the chains between her fingers with a smile. They had taken three ships in the two weeks since they turned east into this narrow sea, hard fights but rewarding ones.

“Once we finish this little visit to the southern lands, it will be time to turn homeward ourselves. Back to our land in the west.”

“Ah.” She fell silent for a moment. “What do you think will happen there?”

“Much can happen in so many months. God willing, I shall make my report to Her Majesty and get a bit of leave.”

“And what would you do with it?”

“That depends on... other things.” He wanted to ask if she would be with them. Instead, he said, “The day before I left, someone tried to have me killed. I suppose I ought to look into that.”

“You don't sound very urgent about it.”

“Well, it's hardly the first time, and it's bound to be something tiresome.”

“Perhaps they've given up, since you've been away.”

“One can hope. Regardless, I may be sent right back out on a mission instead. It's been a long while since I spent any time to speak of in my own land. I hardly even know what to hope for once we reach it. Or if I can call it mine, after all that's happened.” He tangled her hair around his fingers, then smoothed it out again. “No matter. What would you like to do with our time ashore?”

“Enjoy every moment of it.” She smiled. “I've heard stories of these lands all my life. I want to see them for myself. Temples and palaces and markets and mountains.”

“I think that can be arranged.” He pressed a kiss into the side of her neck. “Perhaps we could find more capacious accommodations for a night or two as well.”

“I would like that very much.” She turned her head, inviting another kiss—or avoiding his eyes?

“Consider it done, then. Something to look forward to.”

He could not stop himself from thinking that she had left all that she knew. The lands around them were at least known to her by reputation, were close enough to her own that she could think of return. In a few more weeks, an expanse of sea would lie ahead that few ships could contemplate crossing. Perhaps this was no more than an interlude for them both; perhaps she was already saying good-bye.

The _Jolly Roger_ made port two days later at a sleepy town that straddled a sleepier river. The disproportionately large docks supported seasonal traders two months out of the year, during which the hills bloomed with tents and temporary pastures. The rest of the time, the land lay quiet, dotted with citrus and olive trees under a pale blue sky. A few miles inland the desert began. In its heart lay the fabled city of Agrabah.

Killian updated the log, closed the book, and sat stroking the pen with irresolute fingers. Another month lay behind. The hollow futility of it all struck him out of nowhere, a trap lying open for his unwary step. Rather than look too long into that abyss, he went up on deck and saw everything as it should be. The past few years had taught Killian's senior crew economy of communication; when he caught George's eye the first mate retained his neutral expression and nodded.

“Shall we?” Milah said. She stood near the rail. A frown crossed her features as she took in his expression.

“Not now.” He hadn't noticed her there. Perhaps that meant something. He did not want anyone's company; Killian said nothing further and stalked down the gangplank without looking back. No one would dare follow him.

No one human, anyway. Killian was far from as drunk as he planned to be when a figure settled opposite him. Despite the late afternoon heat, the newcomer wore a heavy cloak that concealed their face.

“You've a different air about you today, Captain. Finding yourself with some new-hatched regrets?” From the depths of the hood, the demon's red eyes glittered. “I confess myself surprised to find you sober, all things considered.” The few other drinkers in the tavern watched the two strangers; other conversations went silent.

Killian drained the cup deliberately before he replied. “Fairly certain it's none of your business.”

“Oh, but it is, if it might affect your... effectiveness. Love is a foolish and distracting business. Better leave it behind.”

“What difference does it make? You get your payment either way.” And that was the crux of it.

Maelstrom snorted “I hope you don't think I haven't anything else to do but look after your sorry life. Speaking of which, I've new assignment for you.”

“Of course you have.” He felt the words like a weight, dragging his head down in acknowledgment or surrender, and stiffened against them. “What would it do for your business if others knew about you?”

“Not a thing. Why should it?” The demon chuckled. “Tell you what, I'm in a good mood tonight. I'll give you this for free.” It leaned its elbows on the table, getting comfortable. “It's the wrong kind of thinking, it is, that leads to questions like that one. You see, mortals think my folk are mostly interested in pain. That's because mortals live in bodies, and I gather that pain is scary when you have a body. Fair enough, and I'm not one to knock the entertainment value. But a body can't take that _much_ pain, when all is said and done. It's got a limit to it, an end. _Suffering,_ though? Suffering is in the heart, in the soul. It can last forever, and no one's ever found a limit.

“So tell her or don't tell her, keep her or don't.” Maelstrom grinned. “As you said—I collect either way.”


	13. Chapter 13

Milah stared at the dock, stung.

“Eighteenth of the month,” one of the sailors remarked with a rueful shake of his head. “Be a quiet night on board, at least. First mate'll go around in the morning and scrape him up.”

Theo broke off her tuneless humming to murmur, “And that, miss, is why you don't fuck the captain.”

“Shut up.” Milah gave her an annoyed look. “Lot you'd know about it.”

Theo snorted. “These things do happen, you know. You heading off? Ship's not going anywhere today.”

“True.” Milah checked her knife and disembarked. Theo followed her. “I don't actually want any company, thanks.”

“Rules are rules. They don't know us here; might get into trouble.”

“If you must.” Milah preferred to avoid an argument that might end up on the subject of who all was included under “us.” She set out with no destination in mind other than wherever Killian wasn't, and paid no attention to Theo tagging along.

The houses were built of different materials than those of Milah's home village, but small and crowded close within the town walls just the same. The stray dogs in the street were not wolf-shaggy like the northern beasts, but they lounged with the same panting indolence in the shade. She followed the street until it opened out into a small square with a well. A trio of women talked among themselves as they hauled up their buckets. Milah asked one of them where she might find a seamstress.

“You could certainly use one.” The woman looked her up and down and directed her three streets over, past a sign with a donkey on it, to where she would find a cousin who plied that trade.

“Thank you.” Milah smiled. Perhaps people ought not to be allowed to be rude to her? It might reflect poorly on the ship. Perhaps that would not be her concern now. She found the correct street after several wrong turns; the cool white canyons lined with wooden doors all looked alike to her. The donkey sign turned out to be a harness-maker's shop, and beyond that was the door with three crossed needles. Farther down the street, however, another sign drew her like a magnet: a pen and inkpot.

“You need someone to write a letter?” Theo wrinkled her nose.

“I know how to write, thanks.” Milah hesitated. She had always scrimped to buy paper before, and made do with homemade charcoal. She opened the door; a bell jingled. A tall, thin man with a very long beard got up from a table near the door to meet her

“May I, er, help you, er... ma'am? You have need of a scribe?”

“I do not.” She tossed her purse once to hear the heavy sound it made. “I need pens and ink, the best paper you have, and I would very much like to look at your books.”

He nearly tripped in his haste to come to her aid. “Of course, of course. And what, er, what would you be in the, er, market for, ma'am? Our town sees many traders from far-off lands.”

“I'll wait outside,” Theo said after a few minutes. Milah barely heard her. A pleasant hour passed before she left the shop with her precious pens and three volumes wrapped in heavy paper.

“You still here?” Milah said.

“Nothing else to do.” Theo shrugged and fell in beside her. “Books? Really?”

“If you're going to stay in this crew, you may want to give them another chance.” Milah did not want to think about that, about him, about the new warmth that had come into her life and the fact that she might lose it. Milah told herself to be practical. No matter what happened, she needed clothes, and so she faced the door of the seamstress' shop and squared her shoulders. Two hours later, she gave the woman a deposit, arranged to pick her new things up in a couple of days, and left the stifling little house with a deep sense of relief.

Theo said, “You do know that you paid way too much for that stuff? I tried to say something, but you kept ignoring me.”

“She has to live, too. Everybody cheats strangers. I sure did, when they were handy.” Milah looked up the street to find the sun setting and the streets growing lively. She had liberty for the night, more money than she had ever dreamed she would, and nothing at all in mind to do with it. “Bugger irony,” she muttered. “You want to get a drink?”

“Finally, the woman says something reasonable.” Theo pointed down the street. “Unless my ears deceive me, there's a tavern that way.”

“Then lead on.” If she had to leave the ship for everyone's peace of mind, she would, although she felt anything but peaceful about the idea. They hadn't made each other any promises, not really. She could find something else. The sound of music and laughter drew her down the street.

*

Dawn found Milah with a sore head, dry mouth, and a feeling that the ship was moving more than she ought to while they were in dock. Other than a few snores from the other bunks and hammocks, the _Jolly Roger_ lay silent. She smelled stale beer and unwashed bodies, which did nothing for her stomach. She squeezed her eyes tighter and felt about in her hammock. Her parcel from the shop was there, along with her purse, much lighter than it had been the day before. Must have been those three rounds for the tavern.

She considered just not moving until her turn for duty at noon. On the other hand, the closed deck already felt like an oven. She opened her eyes a crack. No fairy godmother awaited with a hangover remedy in hand. After a minute of contemplation, she decided that she was not going to be sick. She went up on deck in search of some water, drank a good bit of it and splashed some on her neck.

Maybe she ought to get this over with. She could hardly feel more miserable than she already did.

“Captain on board?” she asked Top.

He raised his eyebrows but nodded. “Aye. Came back a'fore you did.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

Milah went below, hesitated, berated herself for it, and knocked on the cabin door.

“Come in.”

She pushed the door open and closed it behind her. Killian didn't appear drunk, but she thought he looked tired. He leaned back against the table with his hands braced on the edge.

He asked, “Are you leaving?”

“Do you want me to?” Milah crossed her arms.

“I don't know.”

“Well. That's hardly an inducement to stay, is it.” She turned away, pain sharp in her throat.

“Wait. I'm sorry.”

She waited without turning.

“As it happens, I'm not sure what to say that wouldn't sound presumptuous. Not normally a concern I have.”

“I'm sure. Perhaps you could listen, then.” Milah faced him. He looked at her with open uncertainty, and she wasn't sure if that made things better or worse. “I'm not ignorant, Killian. I spent most of my life in a land at war; I know the sort of things that can happen, the kind of scars that follow. I won't demand that you tell me what the business yesterday was about. But as... fond as I am of you, neither am I interested in watching that go on for—for any period of time, really.”

He shook his head and continued to meet her eyes. “I won't ask that of you. That was a foolish decision on my part. I've been accustomed to think on what's been lost, these past few years, and not on what remains. I didn't think you would want to come with us when we leave here, and I ought to have at least inquired.”

“Why not? There's nothing for me here at all. Nothing I can go back to.” She set that truth out into the world and forged past it. “A hundred miles or a thousand, what does it matter to me?”

“The land we would sail for is not like anywhere you've seen.”

“You don't think I can get used to it? Or you think I'll embarrass you.”

He shook his head with a half smile and said, “I'm a walking scandal, love, entirely proof against that. But only that.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean?”

“Knives, poisons, pistols, and the like. I'm unlikely to experience the dubious joys of old age.”

“And that's a concern I should have? You may recall that I signed on for this. I know the risks. There are no guarantees in any walk of life. Would you like to hear the tale of how many folk I've seen buried?”

“Not particularly, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps we could begin this again. I apologize for underestimating you. Can you forgive me? I'll endeavor not to repeat last night's mistake.” He looked at her steadily and without a smile now. “I am not practiced at solemn declarations. If you're willing to do so, I would like you to stay here. For as long as it suits you.”

“Then I will.” Milah drew a breath. She had a lot of experience with smoothing over rough patches in her years of marriage, but not quite like this. “Are you finished speech-making?”

“Aye, I think so.”

“Good.” She stepped forward and caught his extended hand. “I don't enjoy this, and my head is killing me.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He pulled her close and brushed her hair back. “How did you divert yourself yesterday, while I was over-indulging?”

“Over-indulging myself,” she replied. “And buying books and clothes. You don't look hungover to me.”

“I suspect I've more practice with it. A bookshop, you say?”

“Aye. Have you run out?” She waved at the shelves behind him.

“Perhaps I have.” He rubbed gentle circles over her temple.

She hesitated a moment, then allowed herself to relax.

“I love you.”

Milah tensed up again, then deliberately leaned into his touch again.

“Too presumptuous?”

She stifled a laugh. “Is that what you were...? No. No, I like it. When do we set sail, then, for this strange homeland?”

“A few weeks, perhaps.” He smiled back and brushed her forehead with his thumb one last time. “We could see this land a bit first? As you had intended.”

He sounded so cautious, this time she did laugh. “Let's do that.”

*

Much, much later in the day, they repaired to the cabin once again, in a far more relaxed mood. Milah settled onto the bed with her purchases of the previous day and a slightly thrilling sense of ownership. She found herself smiling whenever she looked at Killian, poring over maps at the table. The bookseller had been delighted by her return with another customer.

“What was that you were asking about there?” she asked. “Legends about eyes? That was quite the long conversation.”

“The Eye of Eris.” He looked up and smiled at her. “I came across a reference to it some time ago – never found another before or since, and I have always been curious about its origin. Don't even know if it's an object, a place, or a person. Alas, neither did our friend with the shop, though he did his best to sell me his entire stock on the hope of a clue.”

“I can't say I've ever heard of an Eris.”

“No one else has, either. It may be entirely meaningless, or a code, and of course could be spelled in a dozen ways. It's quite the puzzle. One must do something with the long becalmed days.” He made a few more notes.

“You might come to bed. We've an early start in the morning.” In three days, if the caravan guide could be trusted, they would be in fabled Agrabah – where, she had been informed by Killian with a wicked grin, they were going to steal something.

 


End file.
